SUMMARY: One simple switch changes the way Buffy and Angel's story unravels, forcing them to face the reality of fate.
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: The story spins off during Btvs Season 2, but there are similar events from both shows up to and including Season 5 of Angel.
WARNINGS: My stories are not guaranteed 'happily ever after' events. They're usually angsty in places and sometimes involve character deaths. I've been known to pair Buffy and Angel with other people (for plot purposes) and I regularly toy with the other characters' pairings just for fun. If you require specific warnings about that kind of thing, please feel free to ask. I *do* promise that I am a staunch B/A shipper. All my stories are B/A centric. All my stories present the couple in a sympathetic and respectful light. This fic is complete.
DISCLAIMER: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the series, concepts and characters are the property, copyright and trademark of UPN, Mutant Enemy and Joss Whed on. Angel, the series, concepts and characters are the property, copyright and trademark of Warner Bros., Mutant Enemy and Joss Whedon. No ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by the use in this work. This work constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This work is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes. All other characters and situations which are not specifically owned by the above mentioned are sole copyright of the author.
DISTRIBUTION: All my fic lives at www.twinflames.co.uk. Anyone who doesn't have permission to archive it, please ask first.
DEDICATION: To Stars who convinced me to take part in the ficathon this was written for and to Alley – she helped me so much when I was working into the wee small hours, I can't thank her enough.
FEEDBACK: I love to hear comments, constructive criticism, suggestions and questions.

PROLOGUE

The circling fires dampened and the darkness that once penetrated every imagined space, every shrouded weakness, began to fade. Reluctant screams and the muted roar of pitiful triumph spiraled down, releasing their final distorted cries in unison – a faint, insistent echo marking the degradation – their feuding at an end. The space shifted and reformed, light spilling from illusory corners and the forces that once held her suspended, confined, were shrinking back...further back.

First contact.

Behind and below: rough, chilled, resistance. Solid. Hard. The cold on her back and beneath her knees...a cruel, unyielding pressure. The surge of fevered energy propelled her forward, deep-rooted frustration finding its overwhelming relief at last – in the motion, in her free will – but she was pulled back. Panic...then anger. More restraints: physical, tangible, wrists, ankles...encased. The pain felt different, seeking entry from the outside, chafing. An ache. Her lips dry, her skin sore and burning, sweat coating her with a fine sheen of hot irritation. And she reveled in it, stretching up, shaking, arms wide, throat opening to a loud, guttural howl of ecstatic defiance.

The blurred, shapeless figures moved in closer, crossing her line of vision in alluring slow motion, trailing the ghosts of their delay. One female. Tangible, yet indistinct – her exact scent elusive, buried, drowning in spices and sharp, sickly flowers. Amidst the unfamiliar sounds, stilted and malformed, hers – the female's – found the clearest path, held a whisper of meaning – of forbidden memory. They elicited reaction, muscles flinching and contracting, rasping breaths quickening to the tremor of a barely beating heart.

Eye to eye, they met – finally able to see – the female's words edging closer to the neglected plains of her conscious mind. Her lips struggled to remember, her thoughts unaided...manifesting themselves, formulating, planning, desperate.

"Angel," she whispered.

And the knife slid cleanly across her throat.

PART 1

* * *

"When luck whispered your number
And fate aligned the tracks"

* * *

The alley was dark – as alleys are wont to be. The suggestive, undulating music from the nightclubs either side, dueling for the attention of unsuspecting passers-by and the custom they might bring, sharing their murky light with the ungrateful few who chose to remain in between.

A dead end, of course. Trash cans. Trash. And, presumably, any number of stray cats weaving their silent paths through the potential treasure. Flyers, posters, torn and defaced, an indefinable stench polluting the otherwise explicit night air, and a young, passionate couple – as appearances would suggest – pressed up against the back wall, their moans of pleasure censored by hushed laughter. Immersed in each other. Fervent. Irascible.

Overacting.

The drumming footfalls advanced towards them as predicted. Three – no – four: One boot-clad female and three demonic males...or, at least, males who seemed to prefer hundred-year-old shoes.

"Here they come," he warned. "An even match if we're lucky."

The couple, still locked firmly together, ignored his words, his commands...

And they didn't have much time.

"For the love of...something sacred – like my sanity – will you two cut it out? Trust me, your show was over ten minutes ago and the one guy who came out here? Wouldn't have cared if we were juggling hand grenades."

"Sorry, groucho," Cordelia mumbled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, clearing her throat. "Is my jacket dirty?"

She showed Doyle her back and he assessed the situation carefully, frowning in concentration as he decided to brush off imaginary dust, or dry rain, or...wall particles with practiced, artful diligence.

"Assume your positions," Angel sighed.

"Sure, I can do lotus, missionary-"

"Cordelia!"

The girl came first, a brunette, athletic, provocatively dressed, tearing through the alley and pivoting without surprise as she reached an end she couldn't hope to scale. She took up a convincing fighting stance before the males – vampires, as it happened – had even reached the entry point.

"You guys might wanna think about getting outta here," she suggested, barely panting, despite all other evidence of a prolonged chase.

"What the-"

"Stay back," Angel ordered, watching to make sure Cordelia retreated into the shadows with Doyle, their stakes lowered.

"You think we've been set up?" Doyle whispered, his voice carrying in defiance.

The vampires, in sober nineteenth-century uniform, interested only in their specific prey, pressed forward, converging on the girl with thirsty pleasure.

"So do we value the moment some more or shall we fight?" she asked calmly...

No.

Not calmly, a slight quiver tilted her voice. Yes, she was ready, but she was scared too. The wild determination in her eyes and the reckless toss of her head betrayed her.

The vampires seized their opportunity.

They were younger than their skill – or their frock coats – suggested, expertly trained, none of them reliant on brute strength. They fought with purpose, not lust. She blocked and twisted and slipped through their hands, yet they never showed the smallest sign of frustration. She pounded down on them with ready defiance, fists connecting with accuracy, sturdy, black boots kicking out with greater force each time, despite the fact that she was obviously tiring. Her turns slowed first, allowing only the quickest of her attackers to catch a handful of her hair and clamp his arm hard across her shoulders, slamming her up against the wall.

"Angel, we have to-"

"Stay back," he repeated, too busy studying the girl to look around at Doyle, fascinated as she pushed back, ducking, throwing her opponent down and spinning to face the other two as she produced a stake from her back pocket, thrusting it straight through his heart without hesitation.

The victory lifted her. She engaged them now with inspiring vitality, using their solidly built bodies to her own advantage as she rebounded from each blow, finally hurling them together into a pile of garbage with a sure, high-powered kick.

"So, what? You on a Vampires of L.A. tour here?" she asked him as she caught her breath...confident that she would win and survive to hear the answer. Moments later, she'd reduced them all to anonymous piles of dust and stood waiting, her arms folded, choosing to stare at Angel, her judgment – and he liked to think an obvious distinction – confirming him as the ring leader.

"You're the Slayer," he said simply.

She shrugged. "What gave it away?"

"We- uh...we came to save you," Doyle explained, stepping forward by silent permission.

"You wanna deliver me into the arms of the Lord or something? 'Cause I'm telling you: not happening."

"You got a name?" Cordelia asked, her eyes narrowed accusingly.

"Yeah. Have you?" She laughed, tiring of the questions quickly, lacking the curiosity that Angel knew could make her a master of her craft.

"This is Cordelia and that's Doyle. They work for me; my name's Angel."

She raised her eyebrows, smirking slightly, the effect cruel in the strange light. "Pretty name."

"Thanks," he answered – his voice comfortably flat.

He glanced over his shoulder seconds before a pair of women emerged from the club, one of them stumbling on ridiculously high heels, drunk, giggling, her friend shushing her firmly. He had no intention of speaking until they'd gone.

"Your senses are nice and sharp, huh, Angel?" the Slayer observed.

"You still haven't told us your name."

Doyle came closer, daring to stand between them, snapping the connection closed with his physical presence. His was the voice of reason. "There's obviously something up here, right? I mean, you sure didn't need our help, but we must have been sent for a reason."

Cordelia mimicked the girl's stance – her arms folded more tightly, eyebrows arched higher. "I know I was just dying to meet a new Slayer."

"I'm not new."

Cordelia shrugged innocently. "Congratulations. You fooled me."

"Maybe I'm here to exterminate your vampire friend," the girl said slowly, twirling her stake in an endearingly threatening manner.

"Wow. You really are an expert," Cordelia drawled. "But if you'd done your reading, you'd know all about Angel and his soul-i-fied status. First thing you should've learned before you came to our town-"

"Princess, let's not-"

The girl lunged past Doyle, shoving him aside like a weightless – not to mention inanimate – object. Angel felt it coming before she'd even decided where to strike, her eyes reading like an open, highlighted book. He dodged her careful aim with relative ease, denying her any contact, ensuring her arrogance would be damaged that night – worried that someday it would get her killed. Three punches, two kicks, alternate sides, moving forward, backing him towards the wall. He let her keep coming, waiting for the inevitable mistake. Her fist was too slow, she hadn't recovered her stance after the second kick, he seized her wrist pulling her past him, using her own momentum, pinning her front-on against the wall...just like her vampire friend earlier.

Only he'd already seen her response.

He anticipated her defense, leaning to the side, pushing her arm harder, further up her back. "Listen to me, if I wanted you dead? You'd be dead. We were sent here to help you. I have no idea why."

He gave a final shove, careful not to let her bones rebuke him with a tell-tale crack. Then he let her go.

"You don't care to find out? Then neither do I."

She turned, glaring at him. And she ran.

"Shouldn't we follow her?"

Angel watched her disappear onto the street, her shadow looming briefly after, footsteps echoing harshly. He looked at Doyle.

"It was your vision," he shrugged, walking away.

* * *

The grief was oppressive. It closed in as soon as he walked into the office, maybe even before...laying siege to his instincts. It rested on his mind more uncomfortably than his own – for that very reason. It didn't belong to him, he couldn't sink down under its weight, couldn't wrap himself in it completely the way he was used to.

"We're doing everything we can," he said, not bothering to greet the man or make eye contact or deviate from the path to his desk.

The lamp was already on, lighting the room with its singular effort, the way he liked it. Solitary, private...a protected circle of dull visibility. He considered whether it had been done for his benefit, he knew he hadn't forgotten to turn it off before they left – but no. It was just that they were so similar now, tuned to the same tastes and offences, guided – driven – by loss.

"Anything new?" he asked, hopeful in spite of every lesson that had taught him not to be.

"She's not dead."

Angel sat down, resting his tired body against the welcoming leather, calculating the extent of Wesley's deterioration after finally conceding a look in his direction. He was leaning by the window. Worse. Since their last meeting – worse. Rough stubble covered his chin, his clothes and hair were unkempt, eyes hard, exhausted...wired.

"It's been almost a year," Wesley stated.

Counting was dangerous. Angel knew that.

"We'll find her," he promised, hating himself for repeating the words he'd wasted so many times, looking away from the intense, anguished stare that felt so familiar it could have been his own reflection – the one thing he thought he'd been spared.

"How?"

"I don't know," Angel answered honestly.

He wanted to tell Wesley how lucky he was to have met her, how excited she'd been introducing him to all of them, how beautiful she'd looked on their wedding day, how often he'd imagined them together in the years after – at home and happy. No one could take away those memories.

"We could use your help," he tested, ready for the familiar rejection, yet trying anyway – for Fred's sake, because she would want him to live and interact and be positive. That was Fred: always positive. Did she still smile he wondered, wherever she was, whatever might have happened, whatever she might have suffered?

Wesley moved away from the window, passing Angel's desk as he answered impassively. "I'm not a part of your little team. I never was. Perhaps if my wife could say the same she'd be at home right now. You really are incredibly adept at losing people."

Angel was out of his chair in a second, his hand clenched tightly, instinctively around Wesley's throat, fingers pressing harder at the merest sign of a struggle. "I'm gonna give you one more get out of jail free card, Wesley, because I know what you're going through. Just remember: if my *little team* hadn't gone to Pylea you never would have met Fred, my *little team* saved her life-"

"By coincidence," Wesley murmured.

Angel threw him hard against the filing cabinet, willing some sense into him, prepared to inflict it personally...knowing he was too disconnected, too numb, to feel any physical pain.

"Yes, we went there looking for someone else, but we came back with Fred. I will never be sorry for that. She's a part of this team. Gunn died trying to get her back because she mattered to him, she matters to *us*, and when we find her, someone's going to pay. Until then, I suggest you show a bit more respect for your wife's friends."

He let go, stumbling back from the reality of his outburst, from his lapse of control.

Wesley adjusted the collar of his jacket, unaffected, blank. He walked towards the door. "What do you need?" he asked, his hand poised over the handle.

"The picture on Doyle's desk," Angel instructed calmly, following him out into the main office. "The girl from his vision...the Slayer."

Wesley picked up the sketch pad and stroked a careful hand over the drawing, following the shaded contours thoughtfully. "Faith," he said.

"You know her?"

He shook his head and dropped the pad, ready to leave. As usual – not planning to say goodbye.

"She's new?"

"No," Wesley said quietly. "She's dead."

* * *

"Same again," she demanded, slamming the shot glass down on the bar.

This one was all charm.

"I don't think you need another, candy cane," Lorne sighed, a sad little smile finding his lips. The young, pretty ones always brought the melancholy; he'd be humming the blues for days after she was gone.

"I said: same again," she repeated through firmly gritted teeth – looking every bit like she meant it.

"We don't do fisticuffs in here," he warned. "Keep your cute tooshie on that stool and you'll get your drink...not that a 'please' or 'thank you' wouldn't be appreciated."

He lifted the bottle of tequila and granted her a refill, hoping it might at least loosen her tongue and grateful that she could take a lot of alcohol by the look of her sharply focused eyes – after her eighth.

"What brings you in here?" he asked casually, ignoring the predictable icy glare. "New to L.A.?"

"Does it look like I wanna chat?"

He laughed, mixing himself a weak Seabreeze, knowing he might make it through quite a few if she was going to be so difficult.

"You look like you might need to," he pointed out, taking no offence when she rolled her eyes and turned her back on him.

Mac – a Fariloth demon and borderline regular – was making the most of his stage time, singing a very special version of 'Yesterday' in his painfully shrill native tongue. He was never going to be a pilot – Lorne really wished he wasn't the one who had to break it to him. The girl's sudden interest in Mac's semi-sincere rendition was unconvincing to say the least, but then, it looked like it wasn't his problem anymore.

"Usual?" he yelled, with one finger in his ear, as Doyle and Cordelia approached the bar.

"Thanks," Doyle mouthed, or possibly said out loud...it was hard to tell.

Lorne nodded at Faith, planning some elaborate sign language before Mac's crescendo finally receded and it turned out to be a waste of time.

"Praise all the lords," he cried. "A few more like that and I'll have to start auditioning. I can tell you already: he'll be around for a lot longer than my ears can hope to handle."

"On the bright side, he could outlive you," Cordelia mused, with all her usual tact.

"Thanks, sugar. One of yours?" he asked, changing the subject before she could come up with any more *special* words of inspiration.

"'Fraid so," Doyle said, lacking any enthusiasm.

"Tough case?"

Cordelia shrugged her pretty shoulders, the strapless thing really working for her. "We've had better."

Doyle took a sip of his beer, and winked at her before approaching the girl carefully, like she might bite...which wasn't at all beyond possibility.

"I'd offer to buy you a drink," he began, "But you look all set."

She swiveled round on her stool, brazen smile at the ready, frozen strangely as she got a look at her admirer. "You?"

"Yep." Doyle grinned.

"And I see you brought your girlfriend. You thinking three's better than two? I gotta tell you: I don't share-"

"We're here to help you."

Lorne leaned over the bar, breaking all the rules of eavesdropping to back Doyle up a little. "You can trust them. They help people, kiddo – it's what they do."

She laughed. "Did I get stuck in some lame-ass, moral-heavy buddy movie? We did this already. I don't need help."

She slid off the stool, downing the nothing that was left of her drink, leaving in a whoosh of bravado.

"Great!" Cordelia yelled. "Run away, that worked *really* well last time."

She stopped, stamping her foot as she turned on them. "What do you people want from me?"

Onstage, Mac lost track of his second Beatles' number mid-lyric. The customers, safe from their own aggressive tendencies stared at the new show, enjoying some risk-free curiosity for once.

"Mostly? We want you to sing," Doyle said flippantly.

Faith grimaced. "You've got to be kidding?"

* * *

Angel pinched the bridge of his nose, imagining his head ached, all the possibilities, clamoring, erupting into open combat in his mind. He wanted to drop the phone and rip the plug out of the wall. Technology took away too much time – time to think, to process information.

"She didn't look dead, Giles."

"I'm merely relaying the limited information my sources could provide at this hour. Her first Watcher was killed by an ancient vampire, Kakistos-"

Angel sighed. "Yeah, I love that guy."

"Yes, well, her second Watcher was of little use, she went rogue. Now also, dead."

Angel scribbled down the bare facts like they would make more sense on paper. "Kakistos?"

"No, a glove."

"A glove-"

Giles cleared his throat loudly and Angel realized that he wasn't appreciating the interruptions. It wasn't too far-fetched to assume he wanted the conversation to be over as soon as possible.

"The point is: five years ago, a new Slayer was called. The council believed that Faith died when her second Watcher did or that Kakistos eventually caught up with her and they weren't exactly disappointed; she was hardly conventional-"

Silence. Awkward silence filling itself with unspoken things that they couldn't hide from each other.

"You think the Council might have had a hand in it themselves?" Angel asked quickly, wishing he didn't know what Giles was thinking, remembering, wishing he wasn't doing the same.

"Not necessarily, but perhaps Faith did die briefly, it's not-"

"Unheard of," Angel finished.

"Exactly."

"Double check what we know so far and see what you can find out about the current Slayer," Angel ordered, without thinking or considering who he was talking to. He held the phone closer, willing Giles to be angry – to say something that wasn't polite or measured.

"She's...uh...somewhat of a mystery. Wyndham-Pryce was in line to call her, but the Council deviated from tradition for some reason. All those who objected were fired immediately – or worse – including your friend. That's all I know at present."

"I see," Angel answered, not sure that he really did. "Thank you."

"Where is Faith now?" Giles asked, probably choosing to ignore the sentiment.

Angel leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, considering the possibilities. "Last I saw her? She was trying to run away from her destiny, so the likelihood is she's run herself right into it. The Fates are tricky that way...."

"Indeed," Giles agreed. "Indeed they are."

* * *

The shyer demons, if that wasn't some kind of contradiction, blushed and stared down into their glasses as the rest whistled and clapped like the little tramp wouldn't kill them all on the street – or in any given cemetery – without a second thought.

Doyle was having a hard time not joining in, anyone could see it, he was a big fan of people enjoying themselves and Faith was definitely doing that. She was working the stage for all she was worth, taking new liberties with the lyrics of Like A Virgin, thrusting her hips all over the place and throwing her head back...Doyle had better *not* join in.

Cordelia was one chorus away from total disgust. "Well? Have you heard enough? I know I have."

Lorne nodded hesitantly.

They could all see Faith wouldn't be coming back down to Earth for a long time yet. The spotlight had her like a dog with its leftovers.

"You're not going to like this, Cupcake. The new girl? You're her destiny."

Cordelia turned on her heel to face him, wishing her demon-ness had some damage-doing perks...death-ray eyes, maybe some retractable claws – although her acrylics could be dangerous enough all by themselves. She knew that from experience. "I'm her destiny? As in we-"

"No, no, no. Not you personally...you guys in general."

Cordelia shook her head, struggling to concentrate and block out Faith's brash attack on the second verse.

"We're not recruiting," she said simply, as though that made a bit of difference.

"She'll be working for The Powers That Be directly," Lorne explained. "I guess they want you to help her get started."

She knew what he was thinking. He felt sorry for her, he thought she felt threatened, that maybe since Fred-

Maybe she could use another girl around the place.

Faith was taking her third bow, and even Doyle tried to give some discreet applause, which he would totally pay for. As prickly as this new Slayer was: the crowd seemed to buy that she was somehow a nice gal. She just had to be weak and vulnerable underneath it all, right? Wasn't that the biggest load of crap anyone would *ever* hear.

"Three cheers for the girl who's gonna sink the fight against evil to a new skanky low," Cordelia muttered.

"Hey, she's not that bad, Princess."

Cordelia scowled and Lorne lined up another beer.

Doyle was going to need it.

* * *

Giles resisted the imprudent urge to laugh. "I know this place like the back of my hand; no new-fangled American alarm system is going to keep me out. Now, answer my question and I'll be happy to leave."

Quentin slid his fingers under the rim of his desk – the extent of his stupidity overwhelming.

"Your security staff seem to be indulging in a short nap," Giles informed him. "No one will disturb us. Answer my question."

He leaned down over the paunch-faced little man he'd once been so in awe of and, for many years, at least respected.

"It's none of your business, Rupert. You're no longer entitled to enquire into such confidential matters-"

"Don't give me that company-line bullshit, Quentin. I should have been informed and you know it."

He stood straight and turned away briefly, determined to regain his composure. The walls lined with books, rows and rows of wasted knowledge, made him claustrophobic – feeling the familiar questioning ignorance of his youth.

"You are no longer a member of the Council. You made your decision-"

"Touch that drawer, pull out a weapon, and I will hurt you," Giles warned, resuming eye contact.

Quentin steepled his fingers innocently, where they could be seen, and Giles shifted his jacket on purpose, making sure that his weapon was equally visible. So help him, it was tempting to put a bullet in the lying bastard's thigh and make sure he could be seen hobbling through the illustrious hallways on crutches for a long, long time.

"One thing my Slayer taught me was that respect for authority has to be earned and maintained. You lost mine the minute you chose to withhold this from me."

"Rupert, really, it's just a name," he lied.

"Like hell it is."

Quentin sat forward, a picture of empathy, transparent in his decision to try reasoning with him. "She's being handled by an outside agency in L.A. She has no Watcher and no direct dealings with the Council. Things have changed; we're a part of something bigger now."

Giles shook his head, eyes darting to the clock on the wall, aware that the alarm system shutting down might have automatically alerted the police, Quentin's relatively calm demeanor suggesting that might well be the case. "Your father would turn in his grave if he knew you'd sold out."

He made for the door.

"The time is coming, Rupert. People are banding together, choosing sides, I made the right choice. Will you?"

PART 2

* * *

"Were you poised to greet the flipside
That came clawing at your back"

* * *

Faith wandered into the kitchen wearing the shortest T-shirt known to man – maybe even child. Cordelia practically choked on her coffee, her own eyes narrowing as she watched Doyle's bulging.

"Uh- sleep well?" he asked, trying for some lame cover.

She stretched lazily and Cordelia averted her eyes, just in time to stay happily ignorant about Faith's taste in underwear, focusing on her magazine with a loud sigh of annoyance.

"Mmmm, good bed," Faith said, yawning. "Better than my old place – that's for sure."

She helped herself to the last piece of toast and grabbed a chair. Cordelia naturally handed her a plate, refusing to say a word.

"You know you have a ghost, right?" Faith mumbled through a mouthful of...yuck.

On cue, Dennis passed her a cup of coffee. Faith took it reluctantly and Cordelia wished she could see him just this once so she could smack him upside the head. Make the house guest from Table-Manner Hell comfortable. Fantastic plan.

"Phantom Dennis," Doyle explained. "He sorta came with the apartment. You get used to him."

"After a certain period of time," Cordelia added. "Time that you won't need to be spending here."

Faith shrugged and slurped her coffee...well, it wasn't exactly a slurp, but quieter would have been better. "I like to move around."

"Sure, but looks like we'll be working together for a bit and we couldn't have you staying in that rat-hole. Right, Princess?"

"Right," Cordelia muttered, not bothering to look up from the problem page. She had enough problems of her own alright, but at least other people's were therapeutic.

"So, what's the deal with the vampire?"

"Angel-" Doyle began.

"Soul, curse, dead girlfriend, much brooding," Cordelia summarized, bored of the conversation already.

Why was it any of her business anyway? Last night she wanted to dust him. Poof. Bye-bye wage-giver.

"He's had a rough ride. This year's been difficult for all of us," Doyle said patiently. "We lost two members of the team."

"Lost as in dead?"

"One lost as in dead," Cordelia snapped, "One lost as in kidnapped – satisfied?"

Faith could sit there bugging them with questions all morning. What she couldn't do was poke around in wounds that weren't healed, talk about what had happened to their friends like it was some faceless news item...not if she wanted to stick around and leech off them some more.

"Sorry," Faith said quietly.

Cordelia looked up and closed her magazine, making space for it next to her plate full of burnt crumbs. She hesitated before glancing at Doyle, expecting him to be angry, but he had a smile for her, understanding and indulgent. He nodded and she told herself she was doing this for him, not Faith – and not because she felt guilty.

"I didn't exactly plan to be fighting evil for a measly almost-living, but we do good work. I knew Angel from way back. He and Doyle saved me from this creepy, vampire producer-wannabe guy and helped me out when I needed a job. I was meant to be an actress, I even signed a deal to do this sitcom-"

"That went well," Doyle joked stupidly. Was he *trying* to get more couch time?

She glared at him, tempted to throw something, but not willing to sacrifice the new bistro-chic china. "Yeah, well, turned out the whole thing was a scam – supernatural scam, of course – I ended up part-demon and immortal, but alive at least, thanks to them. And I gotta say: being young and beautiful forever doesn't suck."

"I bet." Faith suddenly sounded interested, pouring them all some more coffee, like there was a real human being in there somewhere...habitually obscured by her general obnoxious tendencies. It was a start.

"You forgot the part about spending eternity with me," Doyle pointed out, with a delicious boyish grin.

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "That too."

"So, how does it all work?"

"The Powers That Be send me visions-"

Doyle pitched forward, barely reaching the table, his hand hovering, clinging on desperately for a few precious seconds before his fingers went rigid and he dropped his coffee cup, the dregs splashing like unruly polka dots around the teeny tiny islands of smashed china. Ruined.

"God, Doyle! Overboard much?" Cordelia cried, hurrying to the sink so she could snatch up a cloth and clean up the mess. "She didn't need a demonstration!"

He growled low with convincing frustration and she turned around just as Faith shoved her chair back and stood up – waiting for some kind of divine instruction. "Doyle?"

He clutched at his head, tensing hard.

Cordelia ran to him, grabbing his shoulders to hold him down in the chair.

"Vi-sion," he managed to grind out.

* * *

The sword veered back in a precise arc, meeting its opponent at speed, the contact mute, but no less real. He slid away and thrust again, each time with more vigor, more pleasure.

She was more than a match for him – fluid instinctive parries, lethal attacks, elegant as the breath that sustained her – delicate, unrelenting. He loved that she fought body and soul, physically, emotionally, utterly absorbed even in the smallest movement, the superficial levels of her conscious mind free to analyze, recognize what she was doing, remember who her enemy was...the consequences.

The first hesitation – negligible, fleeting – and he knew. She loved him. Still – too much. He soared with love of his own, even as he smiled a wicked smile and buried the blade deep in her gut, her blood, like always, filling his vision until every facet of the impressionistic world was blocked in red, even as the pain began....

"Buffy-" he called out, sitting bolt upright against the will of the tangled burgundy sheets, revulsion teasing the back of his throat as he tried to blink away their color.

He swallowed and looked around his bedroom, systematically recalling the past seven years. Reminding himself that this was today.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood carefully, still shaken by the lucidity of the dream. It was Faith, the Slayer, it had to be. He dreamed of Buffy constantly: smiling at his side, laughing with their miraculous children, in the sunlight and in agony and anywhere else his subconscious mind would allow them time together. He would sit with her quietly, watching her, letting her tease him, or willingly sharing what she suffered – coaxing her through the unspeakable torture dealt by faceless creatures, by himself, but that dream...that one specific dream...he'd thought was gone.

He couldn't function properly as long as it was there, sipping at the edge of his forced discipline, he couldn't do his job and – without that – he couldn't keep on existing, not even in the despondent, perfunctory way that he did now. Faith. It was too much, being near her, the base scent so similar....

The hot water reacted against his cool skin, the shower beating down on him, hounding his mind as he focused on the uncomfortable, yet familiar, sensation. He opened his mouth to the spray, letting it tap his eyes closed as his hair plastered flat over his forehead, turning to reach for the soap.

There were people upstairs. Cordelia's heels, Doyle's tainted Irish accent and something new...heavy, agitated footfalls that could only be Faith's. They were in early. Something must have happened.

He shut off the water and wrapped a towel around his waist as he returned to the bedroom to find something to wear. Within minutes, he walked out into the office, his hair roughly gelled, his black pants and an easily matched sweater sticking to his still-damp skin.

"Rough night..." Doyle observed.

Angel went to Cordelia's desk, examining the sketch that was taking shape in front of her. "What have we got?"

Cordelia didn't answer, which immediately told him he should be worried. She was too engrossed even to speak.

"Fred," Doyle told him – in his only serious tone.

Angel bent lower to get a better look at what seemed to be the inside of an old building of some sort appearing by Cordelia's hand.

"You're sure? Why would they send it after so long?"

Doyle shrugged gently, shaking his head, looking like it hurt. "Maybe it's time for her to come home- hey, wait...those doors should be wider."

Cordelia found the eraser, picking it up calmly...and throwing it at Doyle's head.

"I think we have enough to go on," Angel said quickly, determined to avert an argument. "Any idea where it could be?"

"Wow, you're really good at this," Faith called from...*his* office.

She came to stand in the doorway, like it was her name on the glass and she had every right to be there.

"This is good," she acknowledged, holding up the likeness of her that Cordelia had translated from Doyle's last vision.

She was right, it was good. Cordelia was improving quickly – had improved quickly – her early efforts childish by comparison, they could rely on her now to capture the scenes, the faces, in sophisticated detail. Angel was proud of her. He'd stopped drawing a long time ago.

"Keep it," Cordelia offered graciously, now tapping away at her computer, looking to match a name to the place.

He knew she wanted Fred back badly, they all did. If any harm had come to her...

She was alive. They knew that. She was out there somewhere, Wesley had done spells to track her and never gotten anywhere but more deeply entrenched in his own grief, but she was still out there, to whatever extent she still existed in their dimension – they had reason to hope.

For Fred.

He picked up the drawing, looking for something he wasn't sure was there, putting himself inside the picture, imagining the sections that ran off the edge of the paper, filling them in, impressing colors over the shading – it was easier than he thought. "These doors, with the steps either side, could they be mirrored directly opposite?"

Doyle frowned, searching through images he'd managed to hold onto. "I didn't see, but they could have been."

"And this part here, you said it was like a bar – what if it was a counter?" he showed Doyle what he meant, careful not to smudge Cordelia's work. "A reception desk maybe?"

"An office?" Doyle wondered.

Faith joined them, standing on tiptoe to peer awkwardly over Angel's shoulder. "What about a hotel?"

"The Hyperion," Angel confirmed. "Cordelia, can you get me a picture?"

She nodded and Doyle went to her side, his hand smoothing across her back, encouraging her to stay calm as they got closer to an answer, belying his own anxiety. Angel watched them, blocking out Faith's exasperating need to fidget, her excitement refusing to correspond with the severe tension as he stood silently, hoping – again.

"That's the one."

Cordelia's breathing hitched visibly as Doyle spoke the words. Angel could smell the anticipation. He knew he should contain it, bind it with reason, but he didn't know how anymore. It had been so long since they'd had a lead.

"Call Wesley. Tell him to meet me there."

"On it," Doyle said, already halfway to his desk.

"Have you managed to get in touch with Willow?"

Cordelia got up, ready to go, needing to act. They weren't thinking straight, any of them.

"No, nothing," she replied. "I've left messages for her at home, at the shop, on campus...."

"Then, you and Doyle should get over there. I'll check out the hotel with Wesley."

"But-"

Angel took her by the wrists, holding them gently at her sides. "Cordy, please."

He looked past her annoyance, enticing her to be still with all the hypnotic authority he dared recall from his long past. "It isn't like Willow not to return our calls and we're going to need her – we have no idea what we're supposed to do with Faith."

He watched her soften, muscles relaxing, eyes flickering downwards. She was going to agree.

"I'm still here," Faith said deliberately loudly as she busied herself raiding the scrupulously low-calorie fridge.

"We know!" Cordelia yelled, his efforts unraveling so fast it should have made her dizzy.

Faith ignored her, punching the air like a hyperactive child. "I'm ready for some action," she announced, as though it wasn't already frighteningly obvious.

Angel grappled with neutrality, making his way over to the fridge and closing the door after her. "Well, looks like you'll be coming with me."

* * *

Shadows flared, shimmering over the candle-lit walls, the mixed, heady scents of incense and wine loading air that was already thick with magical intent.

Willow rocked gently, the rhythmic spill of an ancient Egyptian chant numbing her lips and warming her body with the prickle of leashed authority. She closed her eyes, distracted by the shapes cast up at the ceiling and Miss Kitty Fantastico nudging at her crossed legs. She felt Tara lay a considered hand over hers and take up the chant, lifting some of the weight from her disquieted mind...then Amy's hand was in hers and all three of them harmonized fluently, the power of their circle almost a tangible presence in the room. She could feel it like a mantle around her, through her, feel the damn cat crawling into her lap-

"I can't!"

She pulled away, breaking contact, climbing to her feet – the static field collapsing inwards and dissipating. Abandoning them. Miss Kitty meowed as she tumbled onto the rich blue carpet and Willow screamed at her, hissing cruelly until she'd scampered out of the door.

"I can't work like this. I can't-"

"Shh...It's okay," Tara soothed, easing closer to lay a hand on her waist, slowly tempting her into those practiced, confining arms.

"It's not okay! We're not getting anything!" She began to struggle, frustration and restraint compounding her anger. "We're doing something wrong-"

"No, sweetie. No," Tara whispered, holding her tighter. "You have to calm down."

"I can't we have to try harder-"

Amy switched on the lights, sidling closer, she looked afraid, her eyes shifting restlessly, and her hands knotted together. She had every right to be scared. "We're not doing anything differently, Willow. We're just tired. Maybe we should try again later...."

She backed away, even before Willow realized the heat was flooding her face, her eyes clouding dark and determined.

"Willow, I need you to relax," Tara said, refusing to let go. "Relax for me, sweetie."

She took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut, distancing herself from Amy's anxious face, and the circle, and the thought of what was at stake, what they had to do. She felt her pulse slowing and the black fingers being dragged away.

Tara flinched at the loud knock, reversing their roles as Willow steadied them both.

The three looked at each other, a question hanging between them. No one moved and the knocking got even louder. They could hear Cordelia shouting in the hall.

"We can't keep it a secret forever," Tara said finally.

Willow nodded and they were each left to acknowledge the decision privately, Amy going to answer the door without a word.

"About time...." Cordelia's voice echoed through to them and Willow accepted a final reassuring look from Tara before fixing her eyes on their visitors.

Doyle entered first, with an apologetic smile, his kindness diffusing beyond his own aura to warm everyone else's – well, he was practically a saint, in Willow's opinion, after living with Cordelia for so long.

"What the hell is going on with you three?" Cordelia demanded, naturally skipping the pretence of a greeting.

"Always a pleasure," Amy muttered, so that only Tara and Willow – as attuned to her as they were to themselves and each other – could possibly hear.

Willow persevered with her resolve face – amazed that she could be so close to laughter after the morning they'd had.

"I've got something to show you," she explained, "Something Angel doesn't know about – and I'm going to ask you not to tell him."

Cordelia lifted her eyebrows impressively, her curiosity immediately piqued. She didn't look nearly as uncomfortable with the idea as Doyle did.

* * *

Lilah kicked her feet up on the thick, polished glass surface, wishing she had a cigar and something alcoholic on the rocks to complete the picture. She checked her expensive Italian-made watch with an expensively manicured hand.

Yes, life was good. Work was even better.

As she'd effortlessly predicted, Lindsey returned from a working brunch just in time to find her positioned comfortably in his office.

"Not working?" he asked casually, like he'd expected to find her there, dropping his briefcase onto one of the brown leather couches and taking a seat on the other – seemingly unperturbed at being the wrong side of his own desk.

"My ball's already rolling. Yours?"

He smiled charmingly. "Ready."

"Then we can get moving?" She tilted her head admiring the cut of his suit and analyzing his mood simultaneously. Had it been a successful morning?

"I have it on good authority we'll get the go ahead this afternoon," he said. "But I guess you knew that, since you decided to get a head start."

She laughed, running her hand over the padded arm of his chair...wondering if she'd let him keep his office when it was all over. "All's fair in love and law, isn't it? I doubt you've been waiting patiently for the green light."

"And I doubt whatever you're planning has anything to do with the law."

With round one silently acknowledged a draw, they observed each other, letting anticipation crackle wickedly between them.

"So, we're agreed on not playing fair?" she teased.

"Sure," Lindsey replied. "May the best man-"

"Or woman-"

"Or woman...win."

Lilah tilted her head like she was flirting with a schoolboy. "Don't worry – she will. I'd kinda like to take the credit for putting Angel into the palm of our hands and make partner and, you know, with the countdown starting and me holding all the cards? I think I just might."

"It's not over, Lilah. Not by a long shot."

She laughed, deliberately, a throaty offering to their abstract friendship. "I knew the minute I laid eyes on him, he had a weakness...and I was right. There's a way to get to Angel. *One* way. And I found it."

Lindsey stood up, wandering over to the window behind her, trying to unnerve her like she merely some easy amateur. "I have to agree with you. The guy has issues written all over him – from day one, the way he dealt with Winters?" He whistled. "Aggressive. Troubled, traumatized even, wouldn't you say?"

"You know, I think I would." She humored him, waiting for the punch line.

"But I'm looking at the big picture," he mused.

"Love," Lilah reminded him, leaning back in his chair. "It doesn't get any bigger than that, not for Angel."

"There is *one* thing bigger," Lindsey argued. "Destiny."

Lilah considered that for a moment, making a mental note to tighten her own security and to double the contingent of staff she had watching Lindsey. She pulled her knees back and set her feet down on the floor, standing suddenly, moving towards him at the window, stopping closer than usual, close enough to make them both a little uncomfortable.

"We'll see," she whispered.

* * *

"You know, I should have done the whole college thing," Cordelia reflected, and most of her thinking, of course, came out aloud. "I was a college girl waiting to happen...I could still pass, right? For a college girl, I mean."

"Morning, Professor."

Willow felt her cheeks get hot again, smiling back at the student as they passed him in the hall. She'd never get used to that title, or having so many people 'know' her – some of whom she'd swear she'd never seen before in her entire life.

Tara squeezed her hand proudly, making her blush even more, making her feel at least an inch taller than she had yesterday, until she could barely hold back a grin.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea, Willow. I haven't been in a classroom for many a happy day. I didn't do the reading you know...."

"Doyle, you don't have to participate...and besides, it's only the second week of the semester. You'll soon catch up," Willow promised, pushing open the doors with an irresistible flourish and welcoming them into the lecture hall.

"Okay," she said, taking a deep, purifying breath of inspiringly stale academic air and pointing out where they could all sit.

"You want me to stay close by?" Tara asked quietly.

Willow nodded, arranging her notes and files on her desk in the exact configuration that she always did. "You don't mind?"

She glanced sideways at Tara who'd already found herself a chair and pulled it over just out of the way of the large white screen. She smiled then, weakly, nervously, like she was fifteen all over again in a class without Xander. Her whole life was like that now – without Xander. She couldn't remember the exact day it had stopped hurting constantly, the day she'd first heard herself laugh again, first watched something funny on T.V. without reaching for the phone to call him. Time had healed, just like everyone had said it would, whether she liked it or not.

But today of all days, he was with her, watching...she could feel it like a pressing warmth in her stomach.

As the students filed in, her tingling nerves found relief in a new, more familiar focus for a moment. She hushed Cordelia's complaints about 'all the secrecy' with a teacher-like 'you'll see' and concentrated on wearing her welcoming smile, trying to pick out the faces of those she knew among the crowd. One in particular, of course.

"God! They're like ants!" Cordelia exclaimed – a little too loudly.

Doyle pre-empted Willow's response, whispering something in his girlfriend's ear that seemed to quickly command her attention. It was obvious he'd just bribed her, probably with a shopping trip or some new shoes. Any other possibilities...Willow *really* didn't need to know about.

She cleared her throat and checked the microphone, still feeling like an amateur as she waited for the adrenaline to turn her into the merciless authoritarian she was reputed to be on campus.

"Morning, everyone. For those of you who missed the first lecture: I'm Professor Rosenberg, but feel free to call me Willow, unless you're handing your work in late...."

She waited for the reassuring ripple of laughter and took in matching, bonus smiles from Tara and Doyle as well as yet another deep breath. She was getting hooked on those.

"So, today we have a few guests observing and also- uh...my assistant, Tara. I know we did this already, but I'd like to try and learn some of your names so as I go through the list of your last names, please stand and tell us your first."

She risked a glance at Doyle and Cordelia, who didn't seem all that interested, but she got underway, reading from the list on autopilot, confident that she'd practiced all the unpronounceable ones to death as part of her pre-semester preparation.

She read louder and louder as she went along, speeding up, barely seeing the students as they responded – some in shy, trembling voices, others boldly...with names that wouldn't be found on any birth certificates. She couldn't bear to look up, knowing where her eye would be drawn, half hoping it had all been some mistake.

Cordelia was whispering to Doyle, it was like an insistent scratching at the back of Willow's mind, but she stayed closely attuned to them, poised, ready to temper their reactions. As she made it through Samuels, Sanders and Stein, a knot formed at the back of her throat. She could hear what Cordelia was saying now, clear as if she was shouting.

"Pay attention or leave!" she snapped, the students quieting instantly as her reputation found its support. She felt Tara jolt forward, ready to help in any way if necessary.

She exhaled, centering herself, and continued, "Stevens."

"Hi, I'm Jack."

She nodded at the fresh faced, lanky guy towards the back and waited for him to sit down.

"Strovos."

"Miranda," the girl answered – bored.

Willow closed her eyes, for a split second, reliving the previous week in all its horrifying, voice-robbing, embarrassing glory.

"Summers," she said clearly, looking up into nervous hazel eyes, four rows from the front.

She felt Tara tense on her behalf, sharing the dread and hope that was thrashing at her heart, threatening to tear it to pieces all over again.

Doyle and Cordelia both turned in their seats, just in time to see the petite blonde come shyly to her feet.

"That's me...Buffy," she said, with an innocent smile.

Cordelia's eyes widened and she stared at Willow, amazingly having lost the power of speech, but the words she mouthed were unmistakable:

"Holy crap."

PART 3

* * *

" As the tides refuse to turn
And tomorrow shades the door"

* * *

She stood, letting the crowds pass her, books clutched at her side, looking curious and more than a little anxious to be gone. Her eyes were flitting restlessly from one student to another as the crowd bustled past her and out of the room, talking, laughing – leaving her to face them alone.

Willow called her over, an irrational fear that she might disappear with the others snapping the last brittle shred of their collective patience. "Hey, Buffy, thanks for staying-"

"I'm sorry, Professor-"

"No! Really, no...y-you have to call me Willow. You should really call me Willow...." She found herself closing and stacking her books – then reopening, re-closing and restacking her books...trying to curtail her compulsion to babble, trying not to stare strangely at the face in which she could find no crucial inaccuracy, trying to distract.

"Professor makes her sound old," Tara said gently.

"Which she's not really," Cordelia added. "Well, she's officially the same age as I would be, but somehow older than you, huh?"

Doyle closed his eyes briefly, cooling his incredibly obedient temper. Willow couldn't understand how he did it, how he could let everything wash over him so easily, retaining only what was important – she was amazed he hadn't reduced himself to some kind of morose, unemotional vacuum.

"Just ignore her...she doubled up her skinny mocha this morning," he explained, giving his girlfriend a tight squeeze at the hips and silencing her protests with the most dangerous looking glare anyone could assume he was capable of.

The busy hallway outside the double doors provided faint, but essential, background noise, covering the slightly drawn-out silence as Willow tried to steer her mind somewhere near the right track. Buffy was trying to smile at them.

"So, um...Willow...I'm sorry if I screwed up already. I can do better – I swear."

Gods, she sounded so much like Buffy. Because she was Buffy...in some form. There was no other way to explain it. It was giving Willow a headache just being in the same room, digging at her memories, but she managed a passable teacher-ly sort of laugh.

"You haven't screwed up. It's a bit early in the term for that. But we're, uh, doing a kind of extra-credit project and we're looking for someone else to help. You seem...enthusiastic? And you're a more mature student, you know? Got all that partying out of your system..."

"Party Going Buffy never really got off the starting blocks it's...a long story – but wow, thanks. I mean, I'm not your major scholarly type so if you're mixing me up with someone else-"

"Willow chose you," Tara assured her. "She's good at that. She has a feel for people."

Buffy shrugged a little, another smile creeping into her eyes before it reached her lips. She was flattered. She seemed to trust Tara even if the rest of them were doing a great job of freaking her out. Willow thought things were starting to take a turn for the better as she became aware of birds tweeting somewhere in the room...and then an almost-melody growing louder and louder.

Cordelia searched around in her bag. "I got it, hang on, it's in here."

She pulled out her cell phone and checked the display, dropping it again instantly with a poorly stifled gasp. Willow watched Buffy's eyebrows rise slightly as she tried to absorb their pretend-it's-all-normal attitude.

"Butter fingers!" Doyle scolded lamely, scooping it up off of the floor.

Cordelia grinned like a bona fide crazy-person, taking the phone and covering it with her hand. "Um...it's my – my boss. Work. My boss from work." She blinked pointedly at Willow and drove the point home. "You know my boss? The one I work for?"

"Are you gonna answer it?" Buffy asked, sounding like she'd already considered handing all of them over for some overdue medical attention from the men in white coats.

"Nope! Nu-uh. I'm playing hooky. I had this urge to learn today, academia was calling-"

"We get the idea," Willow snapped, willing Cordelia's finger towards the off button and the phone back into her bag. "So, the project...."

"What would you need me to do?" Buffy prompted.

"We're exploring modern day esoteric practices and their ancient roots-"

"Magic and stuff?"

Willow nodded brightly. "It's going to be fun. Really...fun."

"Sure," Buffy agreed with dread, unaware that a refusal would mess with Willow's only plan. "I- I have to go meet someone for lunch. Can I think about it and get back to you? I should, you know, check my schedule...busy, busy!"

"Whenever you're ready," Tara offered.

"Great. So, I'd better get going," she said, backing away quickly. "Nice to meet you all...."

When she was gone, they could do nothing but stand for a moment and stare at the space she'd left behind. The dull pain of nostalgia was worse after the vivid reminder and, for Willow, tainted with something new...disappointment. Here was the miracle she'd been demanding for so long, but in an obscure, misshapen package – nothing like she'd imagined. The conversations she'd had with Buffy in her mind, in her dreams – none of them were like this. All the ways she'd envisioned her coming back – all of them coming back – they were about relief and tears and...not some inexplicable kind of amnesia.

Cordelia shook her head. "If she's a robot, she's *really* good. She even has that whole shifty, unpopular nervous thing going-"

"Show some respect for the dead," Doyle said gravely.

She pursed her well-glossed lips. "Did she look dead to you?"

Willow put away her notes, anxious to occupy her hands...somehow that didn't involve them being wrapped around Cordelia's throat but, in the field of ignoring his girlfriend, Doyle was the only true expert. "What do we do now?"

Willow shrugged, switching off the overhead projector and picking up her bag. "We wait and we hope she says yes so we can knock her out and run tests on her. Like an irreplaceable lab rat."

* * *

"So then, they all just stared at me as I was leaving, like *I* was the freak. Seriously creepy. I think I should check it out." She took another bite of her apple, enjoying the extra curricular-ness of her new suspicions more than she probably should.

Bad, unprofessional Buffy.

"Let me get this straight: you think your sociology professor is some kind of witch trying to initiate you into her secret student coven?"

Buffy nodded cheerfully, using his confusion as a window to steal one of his disappointingly cold fries without his notice, glancing over her shoulder to make sure there were no campus-spy-like candidates skulking around. She wasn't really worried that the couple lying on the grass nearby, or the guys busy being super-manly with their Frisbee, might hear.

Lunch breaks really never lost their appeal. They were almost worth getting back into school for – the negative being that, in order to call it a break, you had to sandwich it in between actual work. Maybe she wouldn't mind the class part so much if she had some cool college friends, or even some uncool ones – she wasn't picky...just old – not that she wasn't grateful to have Riley around to meet her everyday at their very special, self-designated picnic table.

She realized he was waiting for an answer and leaned forward so she could whisper, "You summed up good, soldier. I should check it out, don'tcha think?"

He made one of his humor-her-then-talk-her-out-of-it-later faces and she knew she was coming across as too excited. She just couldn't help it. Everything had been so easy lately and, no matter how much she made herself feel guilty about it, she wanted some action. Real action.

"I'm not saying the professor's evil or anything. She doesn't *seem* evil, but then it's hard to tell – we should make sure...."

"Report it," Riley suggested, full of disappointing common sense.

She knew he was right. She also knew she was going to ignore his advice. He knew it too. She knew that he knew it...like he knew that she was gunning for another of his fries, just for the fun of taking it. He slapped her hand away and she pouted, refusing to take the one he offered when he brought it to her lips-

The dreaded pager beeped and she groaned, automatically checking her own.

"Nothing for me, right?" she asked, as he studied the number with a quiet, resigned sigh that told her lunch was over.

"You're good," he answered seriously.

Fun time was definitely done.

"Here, you stay and finish these for me." He slid his box of fries across the table and climbed off the bench.

She did her best sending-her-man-to-work impression as he came around to kiss her, steadying his chin with her fingers and letting her lips linger slightly longer than usual to tease the Frisbee guys who were hooting and jeering already.

Riley smiled down at her. "Will I get to see you later?"

She frowned. "I was gonna do a really quick sweep and then try and spend some time with Mom. This trip could be a long one-"

"*Late* later," he murmured, leaning in to kiss her again. "When you decided to come to UCLA I thought you'd be living on campus...the way things are now, we hardly ever get time alone."

She thought about it for a second, noting the puppy-dog eyes she was getting and realizing how long it must have been since they'd spent the night together, or gone to a movie, or done anything remotely normal.

"I'll sneak out and come see you when Mom goes to bed," she agreed, knowing she'd caved too easily. "Now, go do your sexy, big-danger military thing."

He laughed and backed away from her, like he couldn't bear to turn around, and she couldn't help laughing too – despite wondering how the hell she was going to fit in work and her mom and Riley and still have time to check out Professor Rosenberg's shady past...there had to be a shady past, right?

* * *

"I am so glad to see you," Willow said, relaxing into Giles' welcoming arms. He patted her back gently, taking hold of her shoulders and pushing her far enough from him to take a good look.

"You're tired," he admonished, concern adding more wrinkles to his forehead.

When had Giles aged? He wasn't old...just...older. It didn't seem right to her that time should speed up and slow down and stop completely whenever it felt like it – for whomever it chose.

Tara stood quietly to one side, not wanting to intrude, until Giles put out his arm and brought her closer, wrapping all three of them together. Willow hoped it made Tara feel as safe as she always did when Giles was around. Like someone more responsible could carry the burden of all their mistakes for a while.

"Give the poor guy some air!" Doyle laughed, nodding his own greeting as he walked straight past Giles towards the back of the shop and took a seat at the big, round table.

Cordelia followed, stopping briefly to punch Giles on the arm. "Hey you!"

He clutched the spot where she'd caught him so affectionately, managing to stretch his tolerance to admiration. "You're adjusting to demon-hood nicely I see."

"You bet," she agreed, her flawless smile somehow improved by the compliment.

Willow went to sit with them, her eyes avoiding the image of Cordelia positioned comfortably on Doyle's lap – not wanting to be reminded and make comparisons, to search through all the likenesses: in the lunch room, in the library...anywhere, of Cordelia and Xander. Memories hard to separate from those of herself and Oz.

The bell rang and she turned to watch a customer enter: a young man, inexperienced, skeptical even, his eyes darting about like he was afraid someone might recognize him. He didn't look the magic-y type at all – his clothes, his hair – patently normal...whatever that meant. They observed the unspoken Rule of Silence as Amy showed him a selection of charms to ward off bad luck. Willow felt sorry for the guy since he obviously thought he was stooping pretty low – it was like being transported back to the library – they were mid-crisis and some Joe Nobody wanted help finding a book about the possibility of plant life on Mars or something.

Tara went over to box it for him as Amy rang up the sale, their faces bright with pride, and Willow felt guilty for keeping Tara away all morning, for choosing to forget she had responsibilities of her own. She resisted the urge to point out that there were much stronger charms out back if the guy was interested, more potent and more expensive. She let Amy and Tara explain how to use it and all the precautions he should take and kept quiet. It was their store. Nothing to do with her. It wasn't her place to interfere.

She felt Giles watching her, knew he could see the conflict in her expression, and it made her angry with herself for being so idly transparent when he could already read her so well. She sat down, deliberately turning her back to the counter...she could tell he was impressed. Could it have been that bad? Could one small gesture of restraint really please him so much? He was trying to reach out to her, his eyes soft and approving. She smiled so he would know she appreciated it, but it only made her more ashamed – ashamed that he thought she deserved it.

With the customer gone, Amy and Tara turned the closed sign and pulled the blinds, and then returned to the table, Tara perching gracefully on the edge of Willow's chair.

The knock was loud, the weathered door rattling unsteadily on its hinges – getting the place up and running had been a big achievement for them, but it was a long way from being completely renovated. Amy rolled her eyes and went to take a look. They waited, tension filing away at the positive atmosphere Giles had created just by coming to be with them after such a long time. It didn't seem fair that the rare reunion had to take place under such an ominous cloud, but then, why else would they get together? Their lives were ruled by crises.

They'd all gone different ways after Buffy...it was like she was the glue; she'd held them together, pulled them all back from the brink when things worked themselves loose and seemed like they were falling apart and then? She was gone.

"I could take a wild guess," Amy said wryly, with someone new in tow.

Willow could too. The girl was wearing painfully tight jeans and a halter-top made of something like snakeskin that Willow really hoped was fake. The outfit alone was enough to reveal her identity thanks to the colorful and none-too-flattering description Cordelia had insisted on giving them that morning.

"You must be Faith," Giles said, looking for any trace of familiarity – comparing her to Buffy – just like Willow was.

"So you're psychic or Cordelia's been badmouthing me already."

"My name is Rupert Giles," he continued in a much drier tone. "Once upon a time I was a Watcher."

Willow couldn't tell if he really meant to sound like a pompous ass or if he was exercising some subtle English sarcasm. Either way, he must have noticed that Faith had taken extra helpings of attitude from the Slayer buffet.

She folded her arms and looked him over without surprise. "No kidding. I was once the Slayer – then I went and died, apparently."

"Right. Good. Well, we're working on- uh...figuring out exactly what's going on here."

"Yeah, I predict research," Cordelia warned. "I'm getting that you're more the hands-on type, so don't feel like you have to stay. Really."

Faith paid no attention, audacious enough to sit on the table when she didn't immediately see a free chair, swinging her legs restlessly. Willow found herself looking from her to Cordelia as they both lapsed into an easy truce – governed by an obvious willingness to ignore each other completely. They could boil up some dangerous animosity if they spent too much time together and Doyle would be the poor guy stranded in the eye of the storm, caught between Cordelia and his duty to Faith. Even Willow could see what a bad idea that was. I made her wonder what the Powers were playing at.

"I think you should let Giles explain what he knows so far," Amy said, practical as ever. "From what he's told me, this is even further off the wall than we thought."

"Goody, just what I wanted to hear," Cordelia groaned, silenced when Doyle covered her pout with a kiss and wrinkled his nose to make her smile again.

"I was s'posed to call Angel and tell him if you were all here."

Willow straightened, her heart giving a strangled little kick as she took Faith seriously for the first time. "He's not at the campus-"

"No....Willow and Tara, right?"

They both nodded, Willow not sure that she liked being labeled so impulsively. Not as one half of a couple. Not even a couple that included Tara, but they did happen to be sharing a chair so she could hardly blame Faith for taking a guess.

"Angel went to your place, Wes went to the campus – is he related to Giles?"

Giles raised his eyebrows, startled, slowly letting them descend into a frown as he shook his head despairingly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh...no."

Faith shrugged, indifferent. "Must be a work thing. Anyway, Angel was all bent out of shape 'cause you all disappeared...." She brought her voice as low as she could to mimic him, "Cordelia's cell phone is off, danger, immaturity, how can they work like this...yadda yadda. Guy needs to lighten up."

* * *

Angel pounded on the door, feeling more ridiculous every time, and then more angry because he felt ridiculous and more ridiculous for being angry...he wanted to break something. Something hard and punishing that wasn't Willow and Tara's front door, something that would make his muscles ache for days – weeks – something that probably didn't exist.

Whenever he dared to turn his back, someone disappeared. He was constantly forced to regret having so many people surround him – rely on him – what did it ever get them but lost? And not just in the metaphorical sense. He was bad news, no matter how much they all wanted to deny it, his curse stretched out to corrupt the world they tried to make for him, wrecking as many lives as it chose, endangering anyone he risked getting too close to.

He could walk away from it now, from the bottle green door with its uniform brass number, walk down the two flights of well-maintained, carpeted stairs, down one more to the basement and disappear forever into uncomplicated, unvarying darkness where he could fight alone without doing any more harm and let everyone else live in peace.

But he stayed.

For her, he stayed. He was bound to them now, like she had been, bound to do his best to protect them even when he only seemed to bring them more pain. It's what they all wanted, what she would have wanted: him to be there with them, be there for them. So he stayed.

He tried Cordelia's cell phone again, tapping insistently at the door, just in case. But there was nothing.

No answer and no answer.

He heard the footsteps from below. Boots. Low-heeled, but still feminine. Possibly Willow, more likely Tara – probably neither. He watched the opening of the stairwell, hoping it was one of them, because he was sick and tired of chasing everyone, because he wanted an explanation – soon.

The flash of gold-blonde hair was instantly disappointing, but the effect was as extreme as ever and his heart sank deeper in dejected recognition, the years when he might have scoured her face for similarities were gone now and it was all he could do to bury the flash of hope somewhere out of reach. He rested his forehead against the door, resigning himself to a search that would now have to include Wesley and Faith.

"Excuse me, are you looking for Professor Rosenberg?"

The voice...

He closed his eyes. He was going wake up, or die, or turn around and beat the insignificant life out of whatever sick, suicidal demon had thought up the trick. Or maybe he was just going crazy. Part of him didn't care, didn't want to look at whoever it was and face the substandard reality.

He turned and tried to smile, casually, humanly-

The walls seemed to drop away, left him reeling in the abundance of space without direction and then, just as quickly, they clawed him back, dropped him without warning into stark awareness. Nothing else had changed – the hallway quiet...bright and existent as always – no dream-like qualities there to confirm his doubt. And yet she stood, staring, right in front of him.

"Buffy?"

* * *

"So, she's back and she's the Slayer? Great."

Cordelia tapped her long pink fingernails on the table, the relentless click tempting Willow to lunge forward and snap them off.

Giles – man of patience – cleared his throat. "It appears that way, Cordelia, yes."

Faith snorted. "Gee, way to get fired. They didn't even call me."

"I have no remaining contacts with the Council," Wesley said simply, standing up, putting some distance between himself and the table – between himself and them. "I'm afraid I won't be of much use."

Giles pressed two fingers to his temple, resting his elbow on the nearest bookcase – its shelves, like all the others in the shop, sanded mercilessly. Willow marveled at his mask of calm, at his balanced, practical approach, his ability to plan and think even under intense emotional pressure, even when he must be as disoriented and frustrated as she was. She decided not to mention the special brand of sticky dust that he'd find clinging to his sleeve when he moved.

"I may have an idea where we can get some relevant information," he said finally.

Faith concentrated hard, pulling apart the remains of another donut, her third so far, when almost everyone else was still digesting their first. Willow hadn't touched them, hadn't even looked when Amy brought them out from under the counter, telling them she'd figured there would be a meeting and no one would have time. It had become regular task for her.

Since Xander was dead and all.

Willow's stomach turned. The way her thoughts just flipped, the way he'd appear in her head, skirting beyond her reach...Oz was all about the sprinkles.

And, just like that, the grief she'd worked so hard to set aside, came back to visit.

"Don't you think it's weird?" Faith wondered. "All the people in L.A. and I meet two ex-Watchers?"

Willow dismissed her naivety easily. "The Fates can be tricky sometimes."

"You'd know," Cordelia muttered. She was inspecting her nails now, like she realized she might have done them some harm during the drumming session.

Faith didn't even seem to hear her. "So why don't they tell you what's going on?"

"We've tried," Tara explained. "We don't have a two way connection. Our circle basically takes messages from The Fates' and then one of us delivers them...th-they just don't have anything to say about you or Buffy."

"Then this is big," Doyle said, his fingers twining unconsciously with Cordelia's, forbidding her to fidget any more.

"Very," Willow agreed. "We don't know how or why or...if Buffy's back. We've got nothing."

Wesley looked up from the book he was studying and straight at Willow, his detachment from the group making it harder not to notice. "I think it's time someone told Angel."

* * *

He wanted to touch her, reach out a hand and feel it come to rest on something solid. But he was fixed, immobile, his lips slightly parted, his eyes – the only thing he was free to move – combing every inch of her with urgency.

"Have we met? 'Cause I don't remember," she said candidly.

He locked his limbs, forcing himself to remain standing, searching her face for recognition and finding nothing but relaxed curiosity. And she smelled different. Plainer soap, no perfume...and her clothes: black, straight-cut pants, black blouse – only a tiny butterfly necklace hinting at the Buffy he knew. Not even a cross.

"I'm bad with names," she said quickly, with a weak trembling smile. "I'm sure I'd have remembered you, though – if we'd met, I mean – you look a little old to be a student...no offense."

"None taken," he said quietly, the words thought and spoken and gone, all without his permission.

"Mature students are a...good thing. Hey, I'm practically one myself – I'm only a freshman. I was gonna skip the whole college thing, never a big academic, you know? I've always been more extra-curricular-ly occupied, but I know this professor at UCLA and she suggested I apply and well..."

She laughed, looking down at the floor just as her face flickered with disturbing insecurity, when she glanced at him again it was gone, but he couldn't shake it off, couldn't equate it with the Buffy he knew, couldn't make it fit.

"I talk too much," she said shyly. "Are you a T.A.?"

He panicked. "A what?"

He tried to clear his mind. He needed to think. He needed to act rationally. It couldn't be her and yet it was. She'd never seen him before. She had no idea...he couldn't just tell her. He had to think.

"Are you okay?"

She took a step closer and he silently begged her to take another. She looked like she might touch his arm or take his hand...he couldn't even comprehend the possibility, let alone hope to curb some unthinking response.

"I- You remind me of someone," he admitted, studying her reaction, urging her to somehow remember.

"I hope it's a girl, maybe even a semi-attractive one...." She blushed slightly, shaking here head, as though she'd only just realized what she was saying.

He could feel her watching him. What did she want? Laughter? Did she want him to stand there after years spent in denial, more years convincing himself she was really gone, and...laugh with her?

"She's dead," he said finally, hating that he'd torn away her smile. He had no right to be angry with her. Whoever she was. Whoever she thought she was.

She folded her arms gently, but the implication was obvious, the defense, he could almost feel her leaning away from him.

"I'm sorry." Her tone was direct, her sympathy sincere, but there was something else now: suspicion. "It looks like Willow's not home...are you part of the project too? Did Willow tell you about me?"

"The project? Sure."

She nodded slowly, whether or not she believed him. "I don't know if I'm gonna be able to commit to anything, but here..."

She rifled around in her bag and pulled out a small, lined notebook, then a pen, scribbling down a number and tearing out the page.

"Could you give this to Willow? She can call me to discuss it- God, sorry, I don't even know your name."

He took the paper and stared at it. A telephone. Somewhere in L.A.. An apartment. A house. It wasn't possible. He'd searched everywhere, other dimensions, they'd proven it over and over to him – she was dead. He'd known she was dead and he'd searched anyway.

It wasn't possible.

"You really don't look too good – I mean, you look *good*, of course you do, but are you really sure you're okay?"

He fixed his eyes on her, steadying them carefully, not knowing what he was supposed to do next. It was like she was speaking a foreign language. "Angel," he said at last. "M-my name."

She looked pleased and he was frightened she might want to shake hands or ask more questions – or leave.

"Angel?" she repeated softly, as though she was testing the sound, seeing what it might do for her.

He swallowed, his throat burning, ears hissing with the silence that followed. He balled his fists, digging his fingers into the flesh of his palms, but it did nothing to alleviate the tension. He was too numb, the sensation too vague and external when everything inside was still reverberating with her voice and his name.

"Well, Angel, I gotta go, but it was nice to meet you. Maybe I'll see you around?"

He nodded and let her walk away like it didn't matter, like it was easy. She glanced back briefly as she reached the stairs, a frown telling him she would probably report him to the authorities if they ever met again. Then she was gone, just as quickly as if he'd been daydreaming again and someone had come marching into his office to shove him headlong into reality. He sank down to the comforting stillness of the floor, resting his back against the relative warmth of the wall, blinking slowly, running his thumbs over the phone number. This was reality. She was real. It was her, it had to be, and she was alive, but how?

PART 4

* * *

"Can you stop before you've tasted
While your soul's demanding more"

* * *

Willow's eyes flew to the entrance of the storeroom, the others' slower, but no less curious. He spoke quietly, not needing volume to gain everyone's attention. His arrival had done that just fine. "Kind of you to fly all this way to help with our little problem, Giles."

He let them adjust, greet him, calm themselves, his expression deliberately implacable.

He let suspicion trickle in a silent network between them, around them, let Faith glare at him, to wonder what he might look like in particle form – she knew then – she'd heard the whole sickening story and decided she'd been right about him all along.

"It's always a pleasure to see you all," Giles said evenly, carefully weighing the effect.

Cordelia raised her eyebrows, not bothering to hide her contempt. "Yeah, we should definitely do this more often."

He looked at them all in turn, united, the duplicity planned, but unbalanced, unequal. Some of them couldn't lie – didn't want to – but they were all going to try. Only Wesley looked like he might understand, like he could see the reckless spark in Angel's eyes, could hear the calculated intimation of malice in his voice.

Angel moved closer, circling the table slowly, casually, looking at the pile of books they were studying, familiar with the titles. He resisted the urge to laugh cruelly as Willow and Amy covered their notes in vain.

"So, where've you been?" Doyle asked cheerfully, a tremor of uncertainty betraying him as well. Even Doyle knew.

"Looking for you. You're not an easy bunch of people to locate...and yet here you are all under one roof."

"Whodda thunk it?" Willow said, in a happy, teasing tone – the effort negated when she immediately lapsed into silence.

It was hard to believe they thought they could do it – keep it from him – that thought they had the right to.

"We've been trying to find out more about the current Slayer," Tara said honestly, the least willing to lie and the least suspect because of it, but if he followed up her line of thought, they'd be under pressure, they might have to reveal the truth. Was that what she wanted?

"Incidentally, I'm dead," Faith added pointlessly.

She was totally relaxed – she didn't care about him, about Buffy, about any of it...why shouldn't she be relaxed? Now that she knew what he was capable of, what he'd done, she could feel free to stake him the next time he turned his back and never suffer a moment of doubt. All those nasty shades of gray he'd painted in her simple world of black and white had vanished already. He was a vampire. He was bad. Even his friends didn't trust him. End of story.

He watched Amy, resolutely still and quiet; watched Cordelia and Doyle pretending to be so wrapped up in each other they hardly even noticed him; watched Giles and Wesley going back to their books, like he wouldn't be able to see past the covers.

And Willow. Nervous. Defiant. Arrogance and fear mixing, but coming to no conclusion in her eyes.

"What do we know so far?" he asked.

"Only what Giles already told you," she answered, her voice flat, indifferent.

He weaved between the chairs and their occupants scattered unevenly around the table, past Wesley who stood in front of the bookcase nearest the wall, towards the second bookcase where Willow was waiting, poring over his face, studying him, like she could find herself entry to his mind.

"So we're no further?"

She took an instinctive step back, shaking her head.

Tara shifted in her seat as his performance began to crack, his eyes narrowing coldly. He glanced around at everyone else, busy trying to ignore them, and then back at Willow, her eyes wide, unlike his, a kaleidoscope of anticipation – daring him to confront her.

"We have no idea who this new mystery Slayer could be?"

"Not yet-"

"The truth!" he shouted.

His hand found the back of the bookcase, pushing it forward, Willow barely clearing its path as it crashed to the floor, books, papers, dust, scattering, clouding, the impact resonating above the stunned silence.

Doyle was the only one who moved, standing slowly, edging closer. "Okay, pal, calm down...."

"Were you in on it?" Angel demanded, "Did you all know?"

He kept his eyes trained on Willow, monitoring Doyle's proximity by the light brush of his shoes on the tiled floor, his vehemence riding higher with every heartbeat around him.

"Just calm down," Doyle repeated, as Faith came to her feet.

"Don't make me kick your ass," she warned. "I owe you."

Angel glanced at her, dismissing the threat, his attention reverting to Willow again. She was the one. Her mask was unyielding, rebellious even. This wasn't about keeping up the pretense; it was about proving a point.

"You did this, didn't you, without even telling me?" He checked the note of betrayal in his voice. Willow wasn't his friend. These weren't his friends. They were Buffy's. This was about her, not them. "You told me it wasn't possible, you nearly killed yourself trying so how- how did you bring her back. What did you do to her?"

Willow stroked the amber-studded choker at her throat. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Angel sneered, gritting his teeth, muscles coiled intently. He pulled out the scrap of paper and held it in front of her face.

"She stopped by your place, said you should call her about the 'project'. That's her home number. Maybe you could arrange a visit, do lunch..."

He stopped.

His voice was threatening to break, his lips moist, salty, and he realized that there might have been tears creeping down his cheeks without his knowledge or consent.

"When were you going to tell me?"

"Willow didn't do this, Angel, we don't know how it happened," Tara explained, her unspoken concern wasted and unwelcome.

"We're doing everything we can to find out-"

Willow suddenly stepped forward, tilting her head up boldly, the action enough to steal Giles' attention. He didn't finish his sentence, letting her speak in his stead.

"This is hard for all of us," she conceded. "We lost her too remember?"

Angel absorbed the infusion of spite in her words, the insinuation brushed aside smoothly. His own brand of guilt worse than any she could hope to inflict.

"Don't," he warned, his body preparing for a fight without any conscious direction, recognizing her subtle smirk, knowing what lay behind the aberration.

"Don't what?" she teased. "Don't remind you that she died? That it was your fault? That you killed her?"

Her eyes were swimming with black, her small hand thrusting out, crackling and sparking with visible energy. Angel felt the impact like a heavy blow to the stomach, hurling him back.

"Willow, no!" Tara cried, reaching for her arm as she raised it for a second strike.

She was shrugged off easily and Angel forced himself to straighten and stand, his vision blurred, jerking his shoulder out of the way just in time to miss the bolt that impacted behind him instead, the tray of empty vials exploding violently, Giles and Faith both moving closer, looking for an angle to intercept, Tara pleading with her to stop....

The storeroom door swung open and Tara pulled Willow towards her in the moment of distraction, holding her securely, shaking with the effort.

The newcomer eyed them all with amusement, taking in the shattered glass and the broken bookcase. "What did I miss?"

"Oh, you know," Cordelia answered, peevishly. "Just those two tearing strips off each other instead of actually getting anything done."

"I can see that," he replied.

She frowned, taking everyone's silence as leave to continue. "Who the hell are you anyway?"

"Whistler," Angel said, before he had a chance to answer.

* * *

The storeroom was musty, like some graveyard of magic and grime. He took off his hat and flicked at the rim, shaking his head at the cloud of filth that puffed up, already having attached itself to him. He straightened his jacket with a tired sigh. He wouldn't mind so much if it weren't so hard to find a decent dry cleaner these days.

"They likely to be listening in?" he asked, suspecting the convenient full-of-activity noise from next door could be phony.

"They trust me," Angel assured him tersely.

"Sure looked that way," Whistler chuckled, watching the fading light from the high window flash as he crossed its path to look at the selection of herbs and bones on some rickety-looking fold-out table.

"You said we needed to talk," Angel pointed out. "I'm listening."

He looked up, taking in the vampire's hostile stance, the stringent bitterness in those murky brown eyes. He was a damn scary prospect, whichever way you looked at it. You wouldn't want to be his enemy and – the state he was in – you wouldn't necessarily want him on your side either.

"The Powers That Be didn't bring her back if that's what you're thinking. I'm here to warn you...some really unpleasant forces are being coordinated for the big one – the End of Days."

Angel didn't look worried or even surprised. Talk about jaded....

"We always knew it would be bad," Whistler continued, "But when we lost Buffy....She wasn't meant to die. I mean, you two, we didn't see you coming. No one did, and I mean no one. You went and got yourselves all involved and in love and bang: Angelus."

He pinched some kind of dried root between his fingers, watching it crumble fittingly as he remembered all the trouble the pair of them had caused – the lecture he'd gotten for not managing to stop it.

"It was like watching a car crash, I tell you...really nasty. She loved you so much it got her killed."

That one hit home.

Angel scowled deeply. "None of this is news."

"We ended up down one mega-important warrior – the most important – and besides that, Sunnydale? Wide open season for any evil with a dream, a vision to destroy the dear old world, and there are plenty of those – unfortunately, one in particular." He shifted his hat seriously. "Our greatest enemy has been negotiating with some powerful allies. Buffy could have – should have – taken all of them out one by one over the course of *years*. Instead, whammo: come End of Days? There they'll be. All in one scary-ass front line."

"Then we'll stop them...who are they?"

Whistler shook his head. Maybe next century the guy would stop being so naive – assuming he got that far. "If only. The last thing we need is you bounding in there kicking off the apocalypse before we're ready – right now, the shape you're in? They'd kick our butts. Really, thanks, but no thanks. We have a plan. We're sticking to it. You just have to trust me."

Whistler picked up a crude, hand-made voodoo poppet that he assumed wasn't for sale. He hoped not anyway, these were supposed to be the good guys.

"Cute, huh? You know you can buy these online now? Not the maim-and-kill type, just your average good, clean fun-type instrument of mayhem for anyone with a credit card."

Angel waited silently. Sometimes Whistler really hated his job.

"We always figured you'd be willing to take on Buffy's destiny when it came to it – the least you could do – I mean in her honor, of course, not because you...well, you know. You've been doing good work for us with Doyle. He was my idea, by the way. I picked him out for you; I thought you'd get along."

"Thanks," Angel said, with a caustic smile. "Now get to the point."

"Gee, you've gotten even friendlier. The girl. She's not what you think. She's not one of us, Angel. She's the enemy. She's their creation and they'll use her against you – we can't afford to let that happen. We've worked too hard to get things back on track."

Angel sighed. "You came all this way to tell me to be careful?"

Whistler shook his head, dumping the poppet down on the table. "I came here to make you understand why she has to die."

Angel didn't miss a beat, his lips pulled back fiercely, "Hurt her and I'll sign up with whatever evil will have me," he swore. "You just lost your last sliver of credibility and if you do represent The Powers? They have too. Tell them that. When you have a new plan, let me know."

Whistler stepped in front of the door. "Buffy died, you know that. She's nothing more than a copy, don't you see it? They're distracting you. We got you a lead on your friend Fred, we gave you a Slayer who's wasting her potential – those are things you should be dealing with. The big picture is our problem. Don't let your personal feelings get in the way, Angel. You know better than that."

Angel shook his head in disgust, brushing Whistler aside. "I've heard enough."

Whistler let him go, resigning himself to slipping out the back and leaving Angel to his miserable denial. He shrugged.

It was worth a try.

* * *

She slipped away easily, bowing low, coming up behind her prey, tapping him on the shoulder to call attention to her waiting fist. She followed through with a knee to his groin and an upper cut as his reflexes doubled him over. Angel felt his skin tingle, imagining his pulse revived as he watched, old instincts stirring, anticipation spiking as the vampire went down and she dropped to all fours to finish it, pulling back from the swirl of dust, without flinching.

"So, you gonna step up and take your turn or do you just like to lurk?"

He recoiled as she rounded on him, staring into the shadows where he'd concealed himself out of sight. Or so he'd thought. She rested one hand on her hip, examining her stake provocatively as he stepped forward.

"You?"

She resumed her fighting stance, spreading her feet, tucking what he could now see was a perfectly smooth stake with black rubber grip – definitely not made by hand – into the waistband of her masculine-looking cargo pants. It was like watching a stranger wearing her face. He wanted to snatch it away.

"It's not what you think. I've been trying to find you-"

"You found me," she pointed out, still on her guard. "I was just out walking...taking a walk."

He attempted another step closer, and saw her tense conspicuously, wanting to reproach her for it – she should know better than to give herself away like that. She should know he meant her no harm. The distance was driving him crazy, too intimate and too remote at the same time.

"The Slayer isn't hard to find when you know who to ask."

She glanced around her, along the quiet back street, checking that he was alone. Confused. She wanted to run; he'd do anything to stop her.

"You can trust me," he said, hoping she would sense the truth in it even if she didn't want to believe him. "I'm on your side."

"And which side would that be?" she wondered.

He looked down, breaking eye contact at that crucial moment. How could he tell her that he wasn't sure if he cared? That he would be on whichever side she wanted? "I work for The Powers That Be," he explained.

This time she came closer, moving out of the yellowed glare of the street light where he could see her slightly skewed ponytail, her chest rising and falling quickly, not from the exertion...so she still felt threatened? "I'm assuming they're not human."

He nodded.

"And Willow? The extra-credit?"

"It's complicated," he answered pathetically, knowing he would have to do better, wishing he could take her hand and kiss her and make it all simple again – as simple as it would ever be. "We could probably use your help at the moment."

She folded her arms, walking away from him, an impulse making him reach out to stop her – too late. She paused and turned back, leaning against the wall of a shabby apartment building at her new safer distance, her shadow stretching indecently. "Why me? How did you even know who I was?"

There was an easy answer to that. He would always know who she was, he'd known it the first time he'd seen her. She wasn't so different now. The changes were superficial, she was older, more controlled, reserved. "The girl I told you about, the girl that died – she was a Slayer."

Buffy nodded, her eyes searching for more, straining in the limited light.

"And I met your predecessor recently. She's not dead, never has been to her knowledge-"

She raised her eyebrows, her lips parting in surprise, more enticing than he'd like, given the situation. "So much for one girl in all the world."

"You can see why we might need your help. Something's definitely not right about this and the Council hasn't exactly been forthcoming with information."

"The Watcher's Council..." she murmured, curious perhaps, but not ready to trust him completely. "I see."

She moved back towards him, battling with herself, frowning, too close for him to think about what was wrong, her arms, her leather jacket, soft and inviting, the body beneath so obviously alive and real – it was her – it had to be. She was alive. And she was real. He knew it.

"Look, I have to make a call and juggle some things around, but this is obviously important, so...you wanna go get a cup of coffee? Figure it out?"

"Coffee?" he asked dumbly, remembering the last time – the first time – the fear, the waiting, the ridiculous thing about Cordelia and all the fuss about her hair.

She laughed at him, amused for once. Where was that smile? The real one, the one that carried no hint of responsibility or world-weary cynicism, the natural, radiant smile that made all the fighting worthwhile...where was it?

"The caffeinated beverage only a real rebel can drink this late at night," she clarified.

He found himself nodding, gesturing for her to go ahead.

"I can do rebellious...."

* * *

The walls kept her anchored, enclosing her safely, teaching her to hunch her shoulders, following their lines. Tara watched discreetly, eyes flicking up from the display she was repairing without compliant, asking their silent question, then returning satisfied.

Willow had retreated to the corner, away from the quietly accusing eyes, from the reluctant acceptance – she'd had a momentary lapse and now everything would go back to normal – stress, exhaustion, fear...they all had excuses for her. For themselves. They didn't want to deal with it.

She did.

It was no use trying to tune out their stilted criss-crossing conversations, trying to center herself and drift away from it all, find a secluded place in her mind to heal...she was far from feeling meditative. More like anxious, irrational. They were too and she could feel it, feel their emotions licking at her constantly.

"I don't get it, this chick was dead. Now she's not? But she lost two years somewhere?"

Faith was still rehashing the basics, over and over, frustrated with herself.

"He was definitely being cagey – and he's not exactly Mr. Show And Tell even on a good day."

Cordelia was still hiding behind her sarcasm.

"Do we know which date? Tara, check the records again."

Giles was chasing another theory with revealing impatience.

"Unless Faith died, Giles, it's just not possible – and even if she had..."

Wesley was mystified.

"Why wouldn't he want us to know? Whatever that Whistler guy said, it was important..."

Amy reasoning.

"So, say it is only five years – she's been right under your noses all this time and you were clueless? Man, am I in good hands."

Faith.

"Maybe one of us should go look for him?"

Doyle.

"Just start at the beginning."

Tara.

"At least he has her back."

Wesley.

"I just want to go home."

"You don't trust him?"

"We weren't looking."

"Maybe it's not her...."

"You wouldn't understand."

"L.A.'s a big place."

"Pass me the files."

"And last time?"

Willow stood up, the book – that had lain untouched – falling from her lap and thudding to the floor. They all looked in her direction, quickly, without exception – proof that they'd been aware of her the whole time, ready for her to erupt or implode.

"Are y-you okay, sweetie?"

She smiled at Tara, retrieving the book and placing it carefully on an empty chair. "I feel better."

Giles smiled too, the effort tight and shaky. "That's good, can I get you some-"

"We don't understand this yet," she said calmly. "We don't know why or why now or if any of it's real. None of us expected this – I still can't imagine Oz walking through that door, or Xander...but Buffy's here, maybe, and it's confusing and scary, but we have to deal with it. What happened in Sunnydale – it was a long time ago."

She looked at Giles and Cordelia, conscious of their shared memories, of the resentment – the regrets. She let them acknowledge those feelings for a moment, let them know she hadn't forgotten.

"Angel needs our help. If it really is Buffy, they both do. That sounds obvious, I know, but I only just decided I wanted to- after Angelus...what she did for him, leaving us all behind...I thought I was over it. I'm not. But I don't want to keep going around in circles because I'm scared to accept the past or the future."

Tara came to stand beside her, slipping an arm around her shoulders, but it was Wesley who spoke first. "This really doesn't concern me. I'm should you some privacy, but you might all want to consider getting some sleep."

"You're right," Giles granted, encouraging Wesley to wait. "We should call it a night, but this does concern you. You were in line to be Buffy's Watcher...."

"This could all be connected somehow," Doyle said, following the thought through.

Wesley paused, glancing at the door and Cordelia stood up, walking towards him, her dress crumpled after hours poring over books and files. "Fred would want you to be with us – to help us."

"If you were Angel and she was back?" Willow asked quietly. He looked at her, his anguish communicated effortlessly and she welcomed it, let it weigh on her, wanting to offer him some kind of relief. "She means so much to us. They loved each other so much. If this is real, if we can make it real..."

He nodded and put on his jacket.

Giles watched approvingly, addressing them all. "Tomorrow then."

* * *

He laughed gently, for the first time in...

He couldn't remember.

Even under the fluorescent lights in the small late-night café, with her cheeks blotched from the heat of a tall cappuccino and her eyes showing the strain of a long day, she was the most beautiful thing Angel could ever imagine seeing.

She sat next to him at the high, circular table, her legs dangling at least six inches away from the floor. The world outside passed them by – cars, people – and at the counter behind them Angel could feel the owner's eyes burning into their backs, his only other customers: two giggling girls out way too late and a middle-aged man evidently reluctant to go home.

"I like it here – it's quiet. I come here sometimes after patrolling, when I don't feel like dealing with my mom or going to bed, just to wind down, you know?"

Angel nodded, watching her bring a torn square of pastry to her lips, watching her finger hover briefly, her tongue flick out to lick off the glaze. He stared down into his black, sugarless coffee.

"You sure you don't want any?" She looked so blasé, so innocent.

"I'm not a pastry person," he said, shrugging an apology.

In truth, he didn't know. He didn't remember much about his tastes as a human, beyond alcohol and women. He preferred it that way.

"So, are you a chocolate person or a cake person or are you more for the salty snacks? Or am I just too nosy?" She smiled, her eyes wrinkling at the corners, not quite enough to convince him she was relaxed. "There's just – I feel like there's something with you, like I have to know more-"

"I never really thought about it, but...salty, I-I guess."

"I get big cravings after slaying...really, my mom must think I have some kind of disorder – and it drives my boyfriend crazy. I'm always sending him out for junk food."

She sipped the cappuccino and he mirrored her, trying not to crush the cardboard cup in his hands as he swallowed the warm, vaguely bitter liquid, intent on keeping the amber from flickering in his eyes. He saw imagined fingerprints all over her skin, the skin he'd once been allowed to touch, the skin he'd once touched without thinking, without permission, the skin he'd touched for the first time on her seventeenth birthday.

A night that never existed for her.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to get off track-"

He shook his head, setting his coffee down with deliberate care. "I think we pretty much covered it."

She chewed the last of her Danish Whirl thoughtfully, Angel captivated by her mouth, the way it moved, the residual sheen of icing on her bottom lip.

"It's weird, huh? The whole thing is just...two slayers? No explanation?" She frowned uncomfortably and he wanted to tell her the rest, tell her everything. "You really think there's something more to this?"

"Definitely, the Council is hiding something and The Fates are staying silent on the issue."

"I knew Willow was a witch. I could tell."

Angel glanced out of the window, following the taillights of a passing car, wondering where all this would lead, how long before she sensed the truth about him too...whether she would scream, whether she could ever accept him.

"The thing is: she didn't go looking for you. There you were in her class, right before Faith showed up in that alley."

"And she knew I was the Slayer?"

"She sensed it," Angel answered quickly.

"So you think it was fate? The Fates? I wasn't even going to take that class, but I had real trouble getting into the ones I wanted. I thought I registered early enough...."

He considered the possibility while she disappointed him, wiping her sticky fingers on a paper napkin this time.

"I'm sorry to bring this up, but don't you think it's a bit strange? The Slayer you knew died and then suddenly you find two more. Coincidence?"

Angel rested his hands on his knees to stop them from trembling, gripping tightly. "I've met more than my share of slayers, more than I should have, even in this line of work. There's a connection there – since I met her – even before."

"You don't have to talk about it," she said softly, placing a hand on the sleeve of his jacket, gentle pressure...contact.

"I loved her," he stated, his voice hollow with the deceit of the past tense. "She was just...she was only seventeen when she died, already carrying the weight of the world. I guess you know how that feels."

Buffy nodded silently.

"The past seven years – without her – they've been so long. I've worked so hard to make her death matter, make it count for something. Before the Powers recruited me, I had no purpose, no reason, not when she was gone. I agreed to do all this because of her, she made me a better person without even being there. I've tried to be what she wanted."

"You must miss her...."

"Every second," Angel said instantly. "I searched for her, for so long, after there was no hope. After we knew for sure she was dead. I couldn't stand the fact that she was just...gone. I left town...it was destroyed by zombies not long after – of all the ridiculous things. The government stepped in-"

"The government?" Buffy blurted out, immediately sorry, shaking her head as a sign for him to continue.

"The whole place was evacuated and sealed off, hardly anyone survived. Even her memorial is gone now. Her family was told she died in a fire-"

"How did it happen?" Buffy asked, unable to subdue her curiosity.

He saw her screw up the napkin, feeling a definite affinity with it, as she dropped it into her empty cup, knowing what he was about to say, knowing what she would think, how she would react...knowing he was going to tell her anyway. Because she, of all people, deserved to hear it from him. No evasion, no lie, would ever be excusable.

"It was me. We were fighting- fighting with swords."

"Practicing?" she reasoned, shaping the images in her mind.

He shook his head, determined. "I wanted to hurt her. I was enjoying her pain. Reveling in it. Every second was like a nightmare for her, torture."

She was horrified, her eyes wide with bewildered revulsion, but she didn't stop him, didn't move. She listened, entranced.

"It was a spell, a curse. She knew that- she knew that maybe there was a way to reverse it, so when we fought, she hesitated...."

Angel let his gaze drift the street outside, not needing to watch her, not needing to see the reactions he could have depicted so scrupulously – without even looking – if someone were to hand him some paper and some charcoal.

"I seized my chance, I wanted to take her life so it would always belong to me, and I remember thinking...she fell so effortlessly, so gracefully...she must have wanted it too. She let go of her sword like she was releasing herself from something, then the blood – I was watching it – seeping out like an infection. I couldn't take my eyes off it, the stain was spreading – it was beautiful – my own unparalleled creation. And then there was just pain – I was back. She was lying there so still and the memories were so hazy, I didn't understand. I had no idea what had happened. I was so relieved when she tried to move, it was like flipping a switch, and everything went back to speed. I went over to her. I tried to make her lie back, but she kept pulling herself up, looking over my shoulder. The vortex was opening behind me and she needed to get to it, she begged me to help her. There was a cut on my arm, just a scratch...she put her fingers to it like it was the worst thing in the world, like she wasn't bleeding to death right in front of me. I had to pull her hand away, seeing it smeared with blood like that, I couldn't stand it. She told me everything would be alright. That it was all a mistake and she would fix it. She said she loved me. She asked me to help her. So I lifted her, I got us close enough and she wanted to stand – I told her she shouldn't, she wouldn't listen. I put her on her feet, trying to hold her up and she kissed me, she said thank you...and she pushed me away – I didn't understand – she took one step back and she was gone. Just like she'd never even existed."

He looked at Buffy, her eyes shadowy now, glistening with sympathetic, ignorant tears. "Angel, I'm so sorry."

"It should have been me," he whispered, wishing she knew how much it meant to say that to her.

She shook her head, wanting to reach out to him he could see...but hesitating, "You can't say that. There are so many crazy, uncontrollable things in this world. I've been under a spell, I know what it's like – it wasn't your fault."

"I killed her," he said, wondering that she didn't question it, rather believed him without doubt, wasn't running or screaming or turning him to dust. He couldn't stop the question forming in his head: If she knew, would she feel the same?

"You loved her – anyone can see that – you didn't kill her. It wasn't you."

"Most people have more difficulty making the distinction," he reminded her, wanting to kiss her hard and show her what was at stake, what it meant, before she told him it was okay.

"They're wrong."

He stared at the rough, scarred wooden floor, not wanting to give himself away, knowing he was careless to have revealed so much already. She reached out a hand and touched his hair, just above his temple, lightly, with her fingertips, the gesture almost maternal. He looked at her, distrustful, accusingly even. He didn't understand how she could do this, how could she forget, sit so close to him and feel nothing....

"I should go," she said quietly, moving to stand, Angel's hand darting out to pull her back with instinctive speed and accuracy. She stopped, making no attempt to struggle, even though he knew he was gripping her arm too tightly. "Will I see you again?"

She looked at him, patient and direct, refusing to speak. He let her go and she nodded, almost imperceptibly, her own questions – the ones so clearly discernible in her eyes – unanswered as she walked away.

Angel stayed for a while longer, swirling the dregs in the bottom of his cup, then he got up, went to the counter and bought himself a Danish Whirl.

PART 5

* * *

"Don't wonder if the sun came up
If it's morning or it's night"

* * *

He took a slow, controlled step, drawing his hands back towards his chest – the routine familiar, immersing. His thoughts were gently moved aside, his mind determinedly clear and composed, his whole body attuned to the smooth, precise speed of the form.

He heard the elevator gate slide open upstairs, was aware of its descent, but he continued with some measure of denial. Even as Doyle went into the kitchen, pulled out a chair and sat down without a word.

The tension seeped back into his muscles cruelly and thoughts and memories tugged at his mind, impatient, unbearably loud. His movement lost its fluidity, not so that anyone would notice, certainly not Doyle, but it was enough to make him lower his arms and scoop up the towel he'd left on the couch. He dabbed at imagined patches of sweat on his chest and at the back of his neck.

"You look like crap," Doyle declared. "When's the last time you fed?"

"I had a coffee last night and a very nourishing pastry. I'm sure they were delicious." He sat opposite his friend, waiting for the familiar lecture he never needed to hear.

"You're a vampire, ever thought of maybe getting some blood?"

Angel didn't even blink. "I've been busy."

"You need to keep your head, man. We know that the Council never assigned her a Watcher or questioned the fact that she happened to share Buffy's name and face. There's some organization here in L.A. controlling her. Giles thinks she was basically sold to them – either that or these people must have brought her back themselves. He's looking into who they are, but we still don't know how any of this is even possible or why the Slayer line went back to her, never mind what it has to do with Faith...." Doyle shook his head, trying to restructure all the information. "There has to be something...two Slayers-"

"Not unheard of," Angel interrupted. "There's more – something we're not seeing."

He tried not to think of Kendra, of Buffy facedown in a pool of water...keeping his eyes focused and receptive.

"According to the college records, she's twenty-two. According to the Council records, she was called five years ago – seventeen."

Angel frowned, "Two years missing."

"That's how it seems..."

He knew what Doyle was thinking, his expression flashing with a deliberate warning, leaving no room for doubt: That conversation was off limits.

"Angel, I can't imagine what you're going through, but we're all with you on this. If you need to talk, get drunk-"

"I'm fine," he answered, standing up and walking out to his bedroom without a word. He found a clean, black T-shirt and yanked it roughly over his head, like it was the cause of all his problems. He went to open the gate to the elevator, forgetting that he was the only one who ever bothered to close it.

"We should get to the shop...see where we go from there."

Doyle leaned in the archway to the kitchen, his concern so obvious it might as well have been spoken aloud. Angel ignored it, irritated that anyone could take so long to make a point, deciding to go find a jacket rather than waste the time completely.

"You feel like telling me what Whistler had to say?" Doyle coaxed. "The Powers might be able to help us if you let them...."

Angel stared down at his hand, poised over the closet door, at the Claddagh that curled so intimately around his middle finger – like it had long ago become a part of him. He took out his leather coat, leaving his lighter three-quarter length jacket – the one Buffy had seen him wear the day before – hanging on the back of the chair.

Doyle watched him expectantly as he came back out to the elevator.

Angel and shot him a look that contained a firm 'No'. "We're on our own."

"Angel, please, just between you and me-"

"They want her dead, Doyle."

He said it so easily, like the concept was so abstract it could have nothing to do with the bright, new day that lay outside, with his thoughts about Buffy's plans, what she would have for breakfast, what she would wear....

A sound from the stairwell cut through sharply. "Did you hear that?"

Doyle shook his head, pouting his lips dismissively.

Angel listened, anxious to identify noise, but there was nothing more.

They went up in silence, the elevator bouncing once before it stopped – the cue for him to steel himself to face yet more people and more questions. He kept his eyes down, barely nodding to Cordelia and Faith as he told them all to hurry.

* * *

The bar lacked any kind of class, any kind of natural light – interminably gloomy and oppressive. Giles could feel the grit of the dirty, checkered floor grinding beneath his feet, grateful when he reached the bar and found himself a stool that appeared stable despite the torn, discolored seat. He ordered a straight whiskey, not inclined to sip anything they could offer him slowly, surrounded by the faint smell of grease and overcooked meat that suggested they might even serve some excuse for food.

He thanked the barman automatically and laid his fingers around the glass, the watermarks and flecks of dishcloth unsurprising. Looking around at the sports memorabilia, he could imagine the place had seen better days, better clientele than the men occupying the bar with him – two of them still drunk, no doubt, from the night before – and the scattering of people, murmuring quietly to each other, in some cases themselves, in the line of booths along the outside wall.

He turned to the man next to him, breaking the impression of silence. "Tell me what you know."

"Is that any way to speak to an old friend, Ripper? You could at least offer to buy me a drink."

Giles slid his glass over, letting the rust-colored liquid splash over onto the partially wet – and sticky – surface. "Have mine."

"And why exactly should I help you?" the man asked objectively.

"Because I found you once and I can do it again, now tell me what you know."

He smirked, amused at the threat, but in no doubt that he meant it – Giles had made sure of that. "You really do have a thing for that Slayer, don't you? I hear you were about ready to shoot dear old Quentin-"

Giles pulled an envelope from his inside pocket and laid it on the bar. "This isn't a game, Ethan. You tell me what you know and take the money or you walk out of here fully aware that wherever you go, one day you'll turn around and I'll be waiting."

Ethan threw back the whiskey, gritting his teeth at the expected sting. "I don't know anything about any resurrection. They found her before the Council did, before a Watcher even got near her. I'd say they were responsible. They're government run – top secret. They contacted the Council and cut a deal, it must have been lucrative because Quentin jumped at it. He upset a lot of people. Some were fired, some were hushed up permanently. This is Quentin's baby; he's in big, willing to give them anything they need and happily dancing to their tune."

"So, who are they?"

Giles watched him shrug, dissecting every movement for the slightest sign that he was withholding something, the smallest excuse to take revenge.

"You can find out. The Council has finally caught up with the rest of the world – I'll say one thing for the American government: they dragged those old gits into the twenty-first century. You can hack their files if you know how and where to look."

Giles beckoned for the barman. "Same," he said. "Twice."

* * *

Buffy pouted playfully – at least, she tried to – demure was a concept her mom kept trying to promote, but it fit about as well as one of Riley's oversized wear-your-own-armory-underneath-and-no-one-would-know sweaters.

He kept frowning as sternly as he ever did, which wasn't exactly stern...more hurt. She sandwiched his hand between hers, threading their fingers together, and leaned on his arm enough to stop him walking, forcing him to look down at her.

"I swear I'll make it up to you," she promised. "I just- I was so tired, I was only gonna do a quick sweep, but you know how it is. I forgot. I'm sorry. I'm the worst girlfriend *ever*...."

"I wouldn't go that far," Riley muttered.

She smiled weakly, realizing that she'd just lied to him without even thinking. It hadn't once occurred to her to tell him about Angel, or their coffee break, or the Slayer issue. It wasn't the first time she'd lied to him – often, when she wanted to patrol alone without hurting his feelings or having him report back about it, she made something up about having a headache or spending time with her mom. And whenever she'd gotten into a dangerous situation and barely escaped alive, she'd tell him everything had gone smoothly so he wouldn't worry....

Yep, this was worse.

It felt wrong-er.

But she had no intention of reporting it, even to him, not until she knew more. A whole lot more.

"So you forgive me?" she asked, sure that she must be blushing.

He kissed the top of her head quickly before they entered the office. "Of course I do, but you're still going to make it up to me."

He fell silent and dropped her hand at the precise moment Professor Walsh turned to greet them, like he sensed her attention. Actually, he was more likely to calculate it than sense it – Buffy was still amazed at what military training could do to the way a person thought.

"It's nice to see you," Walsh said, rising out of the swivel chair where she'd been observing the weapons tests taking place downstairs, on a row of interactive monitors.

Buffy looked down briefly, finding a mask of apology she'd learned to use often around her so-called superiors – one that allowed her far more freedom than the defiance she'd shown in her early days there. She reminded herself regularly that they did good work, that Riley trusted them and so should she, that without them she'd be totally clueless – maybe even dead. They'd kept things running smoothly with her mom, through her last years of school and now through college...all in all, from what she'd heard about the alternative – the Watcher's Council – things weren't so bad. A bunch of British guys sitting in a library drinking tea thousands of miles away weren't exactly going to be of much use.

"I trust last night was productive?"

Buffy nodded, "Very. Lots of vamps- vampires...HSTs of the vampire variety. Nothing unusual to report."

Walsh smiled and it made her severe, symmetrical face crinkle uncomfortably. She looked like the aunty that meant well, but had never had any children of her own, and couldn't quite communicate anything affection-related to anyone younger – or maybe to anyone at all.

"I'd say, in your case, that's a good thing, since you so rarely report anyway."

Buffy knew better than to answer. Glancing sideways at Riley, she wished he'd give her the kind of admiring smirk of conspiracy that most of the other guys would. Even Graham had softened up eventually – of course, that had a lot to do with her saving his ass more times than she could count, a service that Forrest, for one, wasn't nearly as grateful for. He wasn't the only one too far buried in his own ego to see that she was good at her job, but he was the only one who still bothered making an issue of it – tolerating her at best.

They stood waiting for orders, or questions, or permission to leave as a young lab assistant brought Walsh a ream of printouts. He left without being thanked and she glanced briefly at what Buffy assumed were test results – looking pleased.

"I'd like you to come in for an assessment this afternoon, Buffy."

"Is that really necessary?" Riley asked tentatively.

Buffy could have kissed him for trying to spare her more pointless, repetitive tests and being willing to antagonize Walsh in the process. She exhaled steadily, reminding herself that she could cheerfully break the woman in two if she ever really ticked her off – she'd done enough to deserve it over the years – well, almost. Besides which, she'd made it clear a long time ago which tests they could and couldn't get away with – and no one had ever dared to argue.

Walsh looked directly at her, even though she was speaking to Riley, "Buffy understands her responsibilities. She must endure these things for the greater good."

"Yes, she must," Buffy agreed, with far more pep than was probably wise. "I'll come back after lunch."

"That'll be fine. Dismissed."

They didn't hesitate to leave, exiting via the corridor that would lead them up and out into Walsh's college office through a concealed door behind a row of false cabinets. They emerged into the hallway, linking hands again like they'd never let go in the first place.

"So, shall I come by tonight?"

Buffy nodded. "I'll make dinner...well, I'll heat something up, but it's the thought that counts, right?"

He laughed, catching her by the waist and pulling her away from the student traffic towards the wall where he leaned and kissed her, holding her against him, his broad hands spanning her hips. She squealed, the spontaneity unlike him, grinning as she kissed him back.

"I can think of better ways you can make it up to me," he whispered.

She was about to purr something suggestive right back at him, but his eyes strayed over her shoulder and she realized she was hearing a small, insistent cough for the second time.

She glanced back to find Willow standing behind them, watching with a shaky smile.

"Sorry, Buffy. I – uh...just needed to- just for a second..."

Buffy's stomach did a strange flip, like she was some kind of bigamist who was about to have her two husbands meet – which was entirely ridiculous since she wasn't married to either of them, or anyone actually...and it was just one teeny tiny lie.

"Willow, hi. This is...my boyfriend, Riley." She felt so sick saying it, she could hardly breathe, then she felt guilty for feeling sick and it got even worse. "This is my Willow- I mean, my sociology professor whose name is Willow...."

She found herself babbling.

Riley smiled gorgeously and asked how Willow was, joking about Buffy's new-found scholastic aptitude and how proud he was....

The small talk made her want to throw up even more.

"Willow, was there something you needed to see me about?"

They both looked at her like she'd crashed a kid's birthday party right before it was time for cake.

Willow nodded uncertainly. "If you have a minute...."

Riley glanced at Buffy and smiled, squeezing her hand. "I'll see you later."

They watched him leave – Willow with more attention than Buffy expected since she was convinced her professor was totally in love with the new T.A.

"He seems nice," Willow said at last.

"Yeah, he is," Buffy agreed thoughtfully.

Willow looked her square in the eye for a long time, confirming what she'd already guessed. That was one seriously powerful lady – it made her skin prickle with goose bumps even though she was suddenly too hot in her sheer, pink blouse.

"When did you meet?"

Buffy shrugged, leaning back against the wall, where Riley had been. "About five years ago. It feels like forever...I never imagined we'd be together this long, but it's good, you know? He's sweet, he understands me-"

"So he knows?" Willow interrupted. "About your...nighttime job?"

Buffy faltered, not sure how much she should divulge to some woman she hardly knew on the strength of what some guy – that she also hardly knew – had said about her being trustworthy.

"I've told him the truth," she answered vaguely.

"Is he part of it all too? Does he work for the government?"

She pulled Willow closer, hushing her instinctively although she doubted anyone could hear. "What are you talking about?"

"We know, Buffy. You don't have to hide anything from us," Willow assured her. "If you feel like you can trust us, you should go with it. There's something big going on here, bigger than you can imagine...we'll find out somehow, but it'll be a lot easier with your help."

Buffy closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She knew better than this. She'd been trained better, but somehow what Willow said made sense and she wanted to help them, even though it meant betraying her contract, her oath. "What do you need me to do?"

* * *

"It's a fairly sophisticated system. We haven't been able to access anything specific enough, but hopefully, with Buffy's cooperation, we'll know more soon."

Angel walked towards the door and then doubled back. Again.

Giles sighed at him. "Willow will raise the least suspicion on campus, Angel. She had to be the one to go. She has responsibilities there – as much as I'm sure she'd love to spend the day here engaged in breaking and file entry-"

"Don't joke about the internet. Really. Some things have no funny to give," Cordelia warned.

"There's definite coercion between the Council and this government agency. Aren't they supposed to be good guys?" Angel questioned, his eyes drawn by Faith who sat at the table twirling her stake absently – again. A glimpse was enough to make his skin crawl.

"You think this mess was a really early, bad-taste Christmas present from above?" Cordelia asked.

Doyle was humming thoughtfully, measuring each side of the book he hadn't even opened in the hour since he'd volunteered to check it for any reference to revivification of the non-zombie variety. "Doesn't sound like Whistler was here to make sure you appreciated the thought."

Angel glared at him...

He was literally saved by the light tinkle of the bell. They fell into a patient silence, turning their eyes back to their books or admiring random artifacts to look more like customers.

Tara stood to offer assistance, but instead of a stranger, Wesley entered, failing to notice Amy who was researching like the rest of them, but still standing behind the counter expectantly. Tara smiled reassuringly at her partner as she reclaimed her seat and it occurred to Angel their collective presence must have been bad for business.

Wesley handed Giles a shabby, manila folder. "They call themselves the Initiative. This is everything I could dig up."

Cordelia rushed over to wrap Wesley into an uncomfortable hug, both of them looking deformed somehow when they were squashed so close together. "I knew you'd come through for us, Wes!"

Wesley tried to smile, extracting himself with a little dignity intact and taking a seat.

"So, we have suspects, we have information...anything about me?" Faith demanded. "Not that this hasn't been fun and all, but I don't usually stick around in one place this long."

"Well, it was nice meeting you...." Cordelia chirped, wandering over to stand behind Doyle and mess with his hair.

"But," Faith said loudly, "If I can't escape this destiny crap, I'm stuck here 'til we know what's up."

Giles nodded, too engrossed in Wesley's findings to look up. "Well, once we've been through this information and if Buffy can access her file-"

"She'll do it," Angel said firmly.

"Of course," Giles agreed. "I'd never doubt Buffy's abilities-"

"But what if it isn't her?"

Cordelia had finished the thought with less tact than Giles had likely intended but, either way, Angel wasn't going to stand there and let them plant nasty seeds of doubt in each other's minds. They'd probably discussed the possibility last night, pitied his blind acceptance...and decided to be cautious.

Not in his presence.

"It's her. I know it is. If anyone says otherwise, they'd better have damn good proof."

"Gee, touchy." Cordelia's eyes betrayed a degree of hurt – enough to make him feel guilty – even though he hadn't meant it to be personal.

"She was only saying that it might be a possibility," Doyle said, coming to her defense... not something he did out of habit.

Giles removed his glasses before finally looking up at them. "We can't ignore the possibility, no matter how much we want to believe this is some kind of miracle-"

"I'm not saying it was some benign act of kindness by the Powers – or anyone. I'm saying however it happened, it's her."

"Then we have to trust you on that," Tara accepted. "Unless there's definite proof...it's her."

Angel didn't know how to respond. Everyone went back to their tasks, but he couldn't help staring at her. Tara had never even met Buffy. Worse than that, this whole thing must be bringing up all sorts of painful memories for Willow, and Tara was the one sustaining her, coping with the loss of people she didn't know, people her girlfriend had loved – been in love with. But she was tolerant and gracious as always. Kind. Somehow she understood, maybe *because* she hadn't been there, because she had nothing to resent him for, unlike everyone else...apart from Doyle.

Hardly surprising then, that they were his only allies.

A thought struck him, a memory of Joyce sitting so long in the dedicated gardens on the day of Buffy's memorial service, that he didn't dare approach the polished gold plaque – so grotesquely new, pristine – the plaque that listed Buffy's name and, as he discovered later, told anyone that cared to look that she was a dear friend and beloved daughter.

It seemed almost sacrilegious to write anything at all about her and not mention that she died saving the world...it was sacrilegious. Profane. People would walk by and never know, never care. He'd wanted to go to Joyce and tell her what he'd done. Let her lay the blame where it belonged...but he was a coward. He left her to her grief instead, left Sunnydale completely.

Then what?

"Does anyone know what happened to Buffy's mother?" He looked at Cordelia who shrugged as expected.

Giles paused, considering the question and its possibilities. "She moved away from Sunnydale after...I don't believe anyone knows her whereabouts."

"Buffy mentioned her last night. She-"

The bell halted them again and Angel glanced impatiently at the door, trying not to growl with irritation. He stopped.

Willow and Buffy walked in, smiling, giggling together like they'd just walked into the Bronze on a Friday night, like he'd been hoping she'd show there....

"Oh- hi," Amy said first, unashamedly startled.

Buffy looked surprised to see so many people, unsure where to settle her eyes – finding Angel's and returning his inquiring stare. Willow took her by the arm, leading her towards them like her own work of art, the excitement radiating out in waves....

"Welcome, thank you for – uh..." Giles couldn't keep his voice even, laying a hand over his forehead, blinking in blatant disbelief. Being told and seeing her for himself were two very different things.

"He was a Watcher in his day. You wouldn't think he'd get tongue tied meeting another Slayer," Willow covered.

Giles couldn't keep his eyes from Buffy for long, none of them could, but he nodded his gratitude to Willow. "Yes, quite."

Buffy came towards the table, looking every bit as uncomfortable as the rest of them, her expression decidedly blank.

Faith intercepted, looking her over with a deliberately critical eye. "So you're the Slayer now, huh?"

Buffy's eyes widened, like she thought Faith might be just a little crazier than the rest of them. "I like to think so," she answered, sending a rally of pointed glances darting around the shop as they communicated furtive suspicion.

"I'm Faith. We have something in common – I'm the Slayer too."

Buffy nodded warily. "Good to meet you."

It seemed so natural that she should look to Angel for support, for encouragement, he could almost forget....

She pulled a slim rectangle of dark gray plastic out of her back pocket and walked directly over to him. "I asked to see my file, but they said I'd need official clearance. I had to make a copy."

"We're grateful," Angel said and she nodded her acceptance, her expression soft and engaging, like the conversation had nothing to do with stolen information and covert government operations.

"I don't get it. I know the Initiative is big with the secrets, but my own file? I just don't know who to trust anymore...."

He tried to think of something to say that would make her feel safe, something soothing – aware that no one else had dared to interrupt, to intrude. Their thoughts seemed to claw at him, anxious to take their turn.

"You can trust me," he said finally, hoping the simplicity of his words wouldn't detract from their meaning.

She looked at him for a moment, seeming almost surprised, the corners of her mouth twitching gently. "I know. That's why I'm giving this to you."

He could feel the tension settle at the edges of the room, rippling out from the source – from them. He took the mystery object from her reverently, like it was a gift, like he had a clue what it was, resisting the urge to clutch at her fingers.

"It's a memory card," Willow explained, breaking the spell. "She wanted to bring it to you herself...." Her eyes gleamed like she'd absorbed the power emanating from them – like she'd keep it safe.

Buffy's cheeks reddened with a rush of blood – her blood, her heat...not something Angel could risk thinking about, not when she was standing so close.

"I can't stick around – I've already made people suspicious today, but let me know if you find anything."

Tara smiled at her like they'd been friends for years. "We will."

"So, uh-" Buffy hesitated and glanced at him quickly. "I'll see you...."

"Definitely," Willow promised her.

He knew it was selfish, but he wanted her to stay. He wanted to ask her to stay. She should be there with them. I didn't matter who found out or what they suspected. She was home now, none of that mattered anymore.

"It was a real pleasure to meet you, uh...properly," Doyle blurted out, stopping her in her tracks, like he'd heard every single one of Angel's thoughts.

Giles followed suit, smiling nervously. "You're very welcome here, whenever you care to-"

"Stop by anytime," Amy interrupted.

Buffy laughed, thanking them. She seemed more relaxed now as she headed for the door, casting a glance back as she reached it, finally finding the smile he'd missed so much.

Angel couldn't help himself.

"See you soon," he said quietly and was left to hope that she'd heard.

"Wait!" Faith yelled, grabbing her jacket from the back of her chair. She pointed to the door as she walked past. "I'm just gonna...I'll catch you guys later."

Angel watched as she followed Buffy out into the late afternoon with a mutinous needle of jealousy twisting in his stomach. When he turned back to face them, Wesley was looking at him in much the same way.

* * *

They dipped and turned, circling around each other, weaving between their enemies with effortlessness precision, suggesting years of regular, exclusive teamwork. If you watched long enough, you could see the patterns, like they had it all planned – resuming their tactical positions back to back at strategic intervals – but a better bet would be that their incisive instincts were at play.

To the casual observer: It was really hot.

They took down the last three vampires, clearing the nest in what must have been record time, the air of competition between them spiced with power. He was sorry for what he had to do.

They panted, looking around the empty warehouse like they hadn't accomplished enough already, wanton satisfaction on their faces.

Faith was bent over double laughing, hands braced on her notoriously leather-clad hips. "Not bad, B."

Buffy quirked an eyebrow, hoity-toity like. "Same to you."

"So, you wanna get something to eat, maybe hit another spot?" Faith said – her hands overly-expressive, itching with excess adrenaline.

"You really get a kick out of this, huh?"

Faith shook her head. "And you don't?"

Buffy didn't answer, looked puzzled, as though the question was completely foreign to her.

"C'mon. The fight, the kill, it leaves you boiling for more...I can see it."

Buffy shrugged uncomfortably. "I never thought of it like that. It's work."

"Are you kidding me? We're the Chosen Ones...or one of us is. It's a freakin' calling, a gift – you're kicking ass for the sake of mankind – what's not to enjoy?"

"Yeah, I guess. Look I- uh," Buffy pointed a thumb over her shoulder, her brow still furrowed slightly. "I should get going, Riley's coming over and I already blew him off last night-"

Faith grinned. "Coffee date with Angel – I heard."

"It wasn't a date," Buffy said quickly. Then more quietly, "Did he say it was a date?"

"Man, I thought he had it bad."

Buffy shook her head resolutely, obviously trying to kid herself. "I only just met the guy and I have a boyfriend. There's nothing going on between us."

Faith shrugged, perching on a wooden crate, tapping her feet – eyes sparkling with mischief. "Keep telling yourself that."

"And Angel doesn't have anything bad about me – or for me – or whatever."

"Absolutely not."

"Stop it!" Buffy snapped.

Faith laughed again, enjoying herself as always. "Fine!"

Buffy hesitated for a bit longer, toying with the idea of saying more, and then deciding against it. "It was good working with you. I'll see you later."

Faith winked, grinning at her. "Say hi to Riley for me."

In a moment, Buffy was gone, leaving Faith to snoop around in the various boxes aimlessly, probably not expecting such low-class demons to have anything of value worth liberating.

"Accident waiting to happen, those two."

She looked at him without flinching, still holding the lid to the crate she'd been inspecting.

"Whistler," he reminded her.

She nodded, disinterested. "You want me to bow or something?"

He couldn't help chuckling, and wishing he'd come to her right off the bat. "I like you kid. I think we made the right choice."

"And what choice would that be?" she sighed.

"You ran into Angel for a reason. We're worried about him."

"How sweet-"

"We weren't sure whether he'd meet Buffy again, but at a certain point it became inevitable, so we arranged for you to come to L.A. and for Doyle to lead him to you."

Faith watched him in silence for a moment, dropping the lid, letting it crash loudly to the floor as she folded her arms. "Okay, why?"

"I saw you bonding with Buffy back there, not the worst experience of my life, I gotta say." He ignored her scowl and continued. "We didn't bring her back, you know that? She's a part of the enemy. If Angel's tempted – well, we can't risk that. We hoped he'd listen to reason, but he never could see straight when it came to her."

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked warily.

"We're counting on you. You're our failsafe. Angel's made it clear that if anything happens to her, he'll turn his back on us. And I don't doubt that for a second." He dusted off the corner of a heavy looking box with his sleeve, grimacing at the black smear it left on his new tan jacket. "So, now we cross our fingers and hope he comes around to our way of thinking before she really gets to him."

"And if he doesn't?"

He smiled and sat carefully. She was a smart cookie. She had trust issues. She was perfect.

PART 6

* * *

"You're breathing in your own world
With your own source of light"

* * *

"You can't imagine how I want you," Buffy sighed, eyeing the frosted carton of ice cream...all the chocolate-y goodness she needed.

She pulled out a pepperoni pizza and ran a cursory eye over the instructions as she kicked the freezer door shut with her foot and ambled over to the oven to pre-heat. She stood watching for the little red light to go out like it might contain some kind of all-telling sign from above.

Well, she could use a little perspective right now. If she'd slept well at all last night, she might have had some kind of prophetic dream to clear everything up nicely. Things were good for her: her mom was well again, she had a great boyfriend, she was in college. It was crazy to think it could all be torn apart so fast.

And was that just melodramatic?

Nothing had happened. She'd met some mysterious good-looking guy and gotten...what? A crush? God, how embarrassing. And wrong. Very wrong. She wasn't available. And neither was he. He was totally in love with his dead girlfriend. Anyone could see that. And she was totally sick for being jealous. Maybe that's what this was...some residual Slayer thing. An *hereditary* crush.

But her stomach had dropped out when she first saw him in the hallway and she'd just wanted to stare at him constantly and wait for him to speak again in that rich, soft, tingly tone. She'd had the terrifying urge to fall into his arms the moment she'd set eyes on him, like he'd catch her for sure. And ever since, it was like he'd set up camp in her mind. He was the doubt gnawing at the edges, keeping her in a daze with imagined conversations.

"It's an oven, Buffy, not a UFO."

"Huh?" She turned to see her mom standing in the doorway, arms folded lightly over a pretty embroidered blouse.

Buffy stood aside while her mom organized the pizza neatly and quickly and then tucked her under the chin. "You look sad, sweetheart. Are you alright?"

She shrugged and tried to smile, knowing she lacked the energy to put on the kind of performance necessary to really fool her mother.

"Feel like talking about it?"

Buffy frowned, deciding how much she could really say. "I met this guy- it's nothing like that," Buffy assured her as she pulled back, pressing her lips together is surprise. "We just...I don't know. He got me to thinking, that's all."

"Honey, is everything okay with you and Riley?" her mom asked seriously, hand clasped anxiously in front of her although she tried to lean against the sink and appear calm.

Buffy nodded. "Everything's fine. It's just this guy-"

"Does this 'guy' have a name?"

She smiled a little, biting her lip – embarrassed. "Angel," she said softly, but it came out stilted and unfamiliar when she was standing there in the kitchen talking to her mother, of all people. She sounded childish.

"Angel?" her mom repeated, tilting her head.

"It was like we connected somehow – I don't know – it just threw me."

Her mom put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. "You were so young when you met Riley, honey. It's only natural that you should be curious about other boys...sorry – men. I must admit I was worried about him being older and things getting so serious between you two, but when you met him, you seemed to settle. Things have been good, haven't they?"

"Things are great, Mom. I'm just feeling all flaky. I'll be fine."

"You sure?"

Buffy nodded again, feeling strangely edgy and uncomfortable when her mom leaned down to kiss the top of her head in classic Riley fashion.

"You know, if you need a break, you could always come with me on this trip...."

Buffy tipped her head back, rolling her eyes to look sidelong at her mother. "I wish. Things are a bit crazy at the moment."

They heard the light tapping on the back door and Riley appeared, showing them a bottle of wine through the glass.

"If you change your mind..." her mom whispered quickly, before welcoming him inside.

* * *

"Whoa." Doyle shook his head in disbelief.

"This just gets better and better," Cordelia added sarcastically.

"It doesn't look like they've been a hundred percent successful thus far," Giles explained. "But they have gotten a good deal further than I ever imagined possible – certainly."

"Those poor girls," Tara said quietly, almost to herself, rubbing the hem of her skirt between her fingers, staring down at her knees. Willow wanted to go and kneel beside her chair, comfort her, promise that she'd make it all right again, but it wasn't the time.

"We can't jut ignore it," Amy seconded, sitting at the table now – tired of lingering at the counter hoping for customers, who would only be scared away by the little crowd. Even listening to their repetitive, biased theories must have seemed like a less futile occupation.

Giles nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I can't imagine what damage any group with an army of home grown Slayers at their disposal might do to the world at large – as much as to the subjects themselves."

"I know this sounds crazy, what with everything going on right now, but a government agency like that could have been doing worse for all these years. I know their methods...all bad – definitely – but imagine what unlimited Slayers could do for us...."

"Willow's right," Wesley agreed. "As much as their handling of things disturbs me, there could be a positive angle here."

He braced his hands on the back of his chair – like Giles, rarely choosing to sit down when he was trying to think. It was almost like they were teachers – at a school of tirelessly headstrong girls...and Doyle.

"The Fates allowed it," Amy reminded them. "They might not always be kind, but they do see the biggest picture."

Tara shook her head, strands of sleek, straight hair falling over her face. "Imagine all those little girls born in a laboratory, never seeing the outside world...they're just babies."

Willow looked down at the markings on the table, the random scratches – her face hot with shame. Tara was right, no matter how valuable the research, the price was too high.

"Doesn't explain how Buffy reappeared," Doyle pointed out.

"Not quite, no, but we have a possible motive. We know what the Initiative wanted with her and why the Council sold her."

Wesley straightened, turning his back briefly. "Quentin is the living embodiment of an inferiority complex. The possibility of an infinite number of Slayers would have made it well worth his while to stay out of things and not ask any questions."

"But why bring back Buffy when Faith was just kicking around doing not very much?" Cordelia asked bluntly.

"That's the mystery," Wesley muttered. "We must be missing something – the key to connecting all of this together. There has to be a common denominator."

He collected his jacket, not bothering to put it on.

"Where are you going?" Doyle was brave enough to inquire.

"I think this is bigger than we realize and I intend to find out who's behind it."

He met Faith in the doorway, nodding to her and continuing on his way.

"What's his problem?" she asked. "Past his bedtime again already?"

Giles smiled warmly at her. Willow remembered that same indulgent look, the one he'd given Buffy at the weirdest times – when she was really being kind of obnoxious. "I do believe he's finally found some kind of purpose."

Faith raised her eyebrows, missing the importance, or choosing not to care. "Profound... Angel here?"

Giles shook his head, going back to his papers without any further comment.

"Three guesses where he's gone," Cordelia sighed, the comment barbed with frustration at being in what she still clearly saw as a vulnerable position.

"And that's a problem?"

Cordelia turned in her chair, annoyed at being disturbed. "We need Angel in tip top shape now. Buffy does not a focused-Angel make. Satisfied?"

If she was expecting a reaction, she was disappointed. Faith smiled enigmatically – saying nothing.

"He'll be fine," Doyle said, patting Cordelia's hand, successfully drawing her attention away from Faith.

"We should give him time alone to process things," Giles agreed. "He's probably investigating the situation with Buffy's mother."

"I bet he is," Faith replied, dropping into the nearest available chair.

* * *

He didn't know how long he'd been standing there, watching. They'd finished eating by the time he'd arrived, the three of them still sitting at the dining table, empty plates pushed aside, chatting contentedly like they did this regularly. So at ease in each other's company, it made his dead heart wrench with demanding envy.

Joyce sat smiling at her daughter out of habit, like she was a naturally valued presence – not some miracle of modern science or ancient magic...and the boy...he was at home there too. Comfortable and welcome, they could have been a family to the eyes of a passerby, designed to be together, mother and children, brother and sister – if it weren't for the *touching*. The slightest twitch of the boy's shoulder made it clear enough that he was touching her. Stroking her knee. Gently. Maybe affectionately. Or deliberately, like some erotic game they played to add flavor to the domestic picture....

Angel clenched his fist hard, swallowing down the knot at the back of his throat that threatened to choke him, letting his face contort privately as every one of his demon facets revolted. He focused in on Buffy's eyes – nothing was reaching them. She scowled convincingly at her mother, smiled at the boy beside her with genuine warmth, but there was something lacking. She was distracted – her thoughts were elsewhere, her discerning eyes now openly betraying her in their turn. Every time she aimed them towards the window, he shrank back, afraid that she would discover him through some enduring instinct.

They gathered the dishes and moved to the kitchen laughing at something, their voices combining, allowing him to detect the topmost layer of the muted sound. He couldn't count the number of times he'd imagined a scene like that, scarcely daring to cast himself in it in case he couldn't bear to leave and never woke from the daydream. He watched the boy's hand in the small of her back, probably ignorant of the filtered heat or the flimsy weight of the fabric. When she tossed her head to the side, her hair stirring lightly, the boy didn't notice, didn't dip to pick up the scent.

Angel remembered it all, remembered everything about being with her: the gentle swell of her breath, her heartbeat, her voice soft and inviting, sarcastic, spirited with laughter, cracked with tears; the way she moved around him, with him, the way she looked at him, her eyes full of expression, delighted or sad, the way her hair fell down her back and her clothes clung to her lithe, powerful body; the fresh, teasing smell of her perfume and the subtle traces of herself beneath, changing as adrenaline filtered through her body, as she went for the kill or pressed up close to kiss him; the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, the texture, the pressure of contact; the taste of her, testing his predatory nature, tormenting him, pushing and pushing until it hurt not to bite down and drink; the way that everything stopped with her presence and was reborn with their first contact....

He remembered it all.

The boy checked his beeper, his face a mask of apprehension, Buffy sighing gently as he started to leave. Angel had rarely seen anything so absurd in all his long existence. The boy was really leaving – just like that. He pressed the briefest of kisses to Buffy's lips, reminding Angel that he was half starved for her, making his blood rise with innate jealousy...then brushed Joyce's cheek with equal brevity.

Tension poured out of Angel's muscles in a flood, draining down, leaving him weak, slack and forcing him to rest against the wall. When he looked back, they were gone, and he carefully followed the porch around to the front of the house, watching them move from room to room busying themselves, eventually disappearing upstairs where he couldn't see. Just being there was enough – knowing she was inside, safe, with her mother, doing whatever she categorized as normal....

He heard the front door open, and watched them both walk down to Joyce's SUV and put a small, black suitcase in the back. Buffy's eyes kept flicking over her shoulder and he told himself she was just watching the house – at the same time hunching defensively like live prey. She said something to her mother, who went back inside shaking her head, and then she wandered towards him, hands lodged casually in the front pockets of her jeans.

Angel took slow steps backwards, his mind reeling pointlessly like he was somehow cornered...without there being an actual corner anywhere in sight.

"Hey," she said simply, like he made a habit of skulking around in her front yard. "You really do like to lurk, huh?"

He grasped for some inspiration, for a lie, trying not to shrug like a morose schoolboy or stammer like someone who'd suddenly found the sun shining directly at them. "I thought I should stop by and let you know we found a number of monitoring processes and discrepancies in your file...it looks like the Initiative has been trying to- uh...grow their own Slayers."

Buffy raised her eyebrows. "Wow. That's not what I was expecting and also? Ew."

Her mother was coming over to them and Angel had to plant his feet solidly to keep from running – half expecting a barrage of accusations, of bitter recriminations. And he would welcome all of it.

"I found them," Joyce said, holding up a hefty set of keys. "I'm about ready to go."

She looked at Buffy expectantly – now she was cornered, too. Angel felt terrible, he hadn't meant to...would never want to put her in that position.

"Uh...Mom-"

"Are you a friend of Riley's?" Joyce asked with a determined smile.

Angel nearly swallowed his own tongue, trying not to lurch visibly at the sound of the sadistically wholesome name: Riley. Conventional, warm and uncomplicated – it stung.

"Mom, this is Angel."

"Oh!" Joyce brought a hand to her mouth, more surprised than she should have been, Angel sharing her confusion. "Well, I should get going. Nice to meet you...."

"You too, Mrs. Summers."

"Call me Joyce," she said kindly, and then she gave Buffy a hug and made her promise to be good, the pure ordinariness of the situation making Angel's head spin chaotically, leaving him to stare after her in amazement as she drove away.

"Come inside," Buffy said, skirting between an invitation and an order.

She couldn't know what it meant for him to be allowed in, but it affected him all the same. He followed her willingly, taking in the pale walls and the modern, homey furniture, the paintings, photographs...unhindered by windows or curtains or guilt.

"Well, isn't this nice?"

Angel spun around, shocked at Lilah sauntering up behind him – he would never mistake her voice – but he hadn't even sensed her coming up the driveway, so mesmerized by the novelty of standing freely in Buffy's home. He scanned what he could see of the street and the yard, checking for the black-clad commandos Wolfram & Hart relied upon so heavily, backing discreetly towards Buffy, ready to defend her – or help her defend herself.

To his incredible surprise, Buffy's eyes lit beautifully, she beamed, walking straight past him and into Lilah's welcoming arms. "It's so good to see you!" she cried, clinging tightly.

Lilah watched him over her shoulder, the smile still in place – at war with her eyes. "I thought it was about time I stopped by. Where's your mom?"

"You just missed her," Buffy said, with genuine disappointment, stepping back...

Lilah didn't even smooth out her expensive suit. She looked at him in all innocence and he couldn't disregard the fleeting thought that the whole world might be suffering from amnesia...maybe a spell.

He could tell she was amused. "So, who's this fine looking specimen?"

Buffy blushed, yet again, glancing in Angel's general direction without catching his eye. "This is a friend of mine...Angel," she clarified. "Angel, this is Lilah Morgan. Lilah helped us when my mom got sick. She saved her life, both our lives really-"

Lilah let her eyelids flutter gently, dipping her chin as though she was embarrassed by the compliment. Angel had to blink several times to convince himself of what he was seeing.

"You make it sound like I did it single-handedly," she reproached. "I was just your liaison...."

Buffy waved a hand to shush her, unwilling to hear any more of her modesty, and Angel was glad – barely resisting the urge to mock the nauseating display.

"Go sit in the living room," Buffy suggested. "I'll get us something to drink."

"Coffee would be great," Lilah said and Buffy nodded happily, disappearing into the kitchen like she always did just what Lilah asked.

The implications weren't lost on him. He tried to discard the thought – but it was there, taunting, humming the first notes of panic.

"What the hell are you doing?" Angel whispered, wasting no more time.

Lilah shrugged lightly. "I like to drop in on Buffy and Joyce from time to time. We're close."

"That's touching," he spat. "If you're the one behind this-"

"What if I am?" Lilah smirked. "You should at least thank me...."

She walked off into the living room and he could do nothing but follow and watch while she sat down, confident – conceited enough to take an inferior position willingly. He glowered at her, the pieces slotting resolutely into place even as he tried to crush them – Whistler's words echoing cruelly around the perimeters of his mind.

"Wolfram & Hart are behind this whole thing...." he said, not even sure whether it was a question or a statement.

"You and your friends really never cease to amaze me with your uncanny powers of deduction. How arrogant of me to think there was a chance you might never have to know I was involved...but since you're getting so close to the truth and since other people seem so keen to interfere – well, there's no harm if I come clean with you."

"Honesty is your best policy. Great. Whatever. Say what you've come to say." He turned his back on her, studying the shadowy patterns on the dark window – strange to be on the inside looking out.

"You've been *very* noble, not that I expected anything less, but I wonder how long you can keep that up? Every time you look at Buffy you might as well be undressing the poor girl...she's an anomaly. Your Powers That Never Do Anything Themselves don't want her, the Initiative won't have a use for her for much longer...you might not have all the time in the world, Angel."

"Don't threaten her," he said quietly.

"On the contrary, you and I are the only ones who can protect her-"

"Thanks for the offer," he snapped, turning to level his eyes at her, staring down hard.

She got up and came to stand in front of him, the slow click of her heels on the wooden floor only infuriating him further. "That's not very sporting of you, Angel. I've done you a big favor. One not even your all-powerful, broomstick-hugging friend could manage."

"Yeah, you did a really good job," Angel said bitterly.

Lilah laughed. "What's the matter? Her memories? The boy? Not everything is easy... perfection's all about realizing potential."

"Whatever you're planning-"

"Buffy is here because I put her here. Her mother is here because I chose to help her recover. I can just as easily reverse those decisions and you can swear to kill me – red hot pokers, shards of glass...whatever. Unless you can take down our whole operation, and believe me, you can't, you'd be better off staying away and counting your blessings. This doesn't have to be a bad thing."

She pulled a small, red velvet bag out of her pocket and he glared at her accusingly as she held it out to him, wishing she were some kind of demon he could knock to the other side of the room to be rid of – as well as for the simple satisfaction.

"Take it," she instructed. "I promise you'll be glad you did."

He let her reach for his hand and place it in the center, closing his fingers – sure that he'd never be able to justify it to himself. He watched her carefully as he pulled at the drawstring and tipped the contents into his palm. A delicate silver ring tumbled out...

Buffy's Claddagh.

If Lilah were any other woman he might have doubted it was the real thing.

"I told you: you'll have to learn to trust me."

"Go to hell," he murmured even as he sealed the ring in his hand.

"Someday," she retorted. "But for now I'll go back to my office and hope you're going to think about what I've said. All you have to do is put your signature on one contract and I'll personally make sure Buffy stays nice and safe and...existent. If you're very, very good, we could even devote a whole research department to dealing with that little curse of yours. Think about it...and try not to strain anything."

She turned around just in time to see Buffy enter with a tray of three mugs painted with some kind of cartoon animals. "Sorry, Angel I didn't know if you'd want sugar...."

She let the sentence trail off like she'd just caught them making out on the couch. The friction was undeniable.

"God, Buffy, I'm really sorry – I'm going to have to skip the coffee. I've been called back to the office. And you went to so much trouble."

Buffy shrugged, putting the tray down on the low, glass coffee table and walking Lilah back to the door with a puzzled frown.

"I'll come by soon," Lilah promised, her hand lingering on Buffy's shoulder maternally. "Think about what I said, Angel, and you kids have fun...don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Angel watched them, sick to his stomach as Buffy said goodbye, pausing as she closed the door, like she might change her mind and follow Lilah out. "What's going on?"

Angel couldn't look at her, preparing to tear another piece of her life away. "Lilah isn't who you think she is."

"You know her?"

He flexed his fingers anxiously, like he had something new to feel guilty about. "She works for Wolfram & Hart-"

"She works for a medical research charity," Buffy insisted.

He shook his head. "Try multi-dimensional, evil law-firm. This puts a new angle on things...I think you're in danger."

"Great!" Buffy cried, "First, it's the Initiative and possibly my boyfriend I can't trust, now it's Lilah, the woman who saved my mother's life – wait – I mean, is my mom evil, too?"

Angel sighed, moving closer, feeling like she'd actually slapped him when she backed away in disgust. "I know it feels like nothing's what it seemed, but we'll get to the bottom of this, I promise. We're going to fix it one way or another."

She nodded silently, refusing to look at him. "I just-"

"I know it's hard," he said weakly.

"Do you? When did someone show up in your life and wreck everything in the space of a few days?"

He tried not to lift the corner of his lips in a smile or acknowledge the way his body responded to her anger and the quickening of her pulse. He took another step forward, relieved when she shook her head this time instead of moving farther away. She finally looked up at him, sparks of indignation flashing in her eyes.

"You're allowed to be angry."

"Good. Because I am. I'm angry." She scowled at him, trying so hard to look menacing, pouting her lips...he found himself reaching out to touch her hair, running the strands between his fingers with devoted patience, watching her allow it in silence.

"Do you need some space?" he asked, his voice husky with the answer that had been clear to him before he'd even thought of the question, the shame already pulling at him – knowing he'd allowed the deep lure that crept into his tone, the tone that belonged to Angelus...enticing, evocative.

"I get the feeling that would mean you lurking around outside all night," she said quietly.

"You're in danger," he reminded her, like it was some kind of acceptable excuse.

"I'm a big girl."

He nodded. "I know. I worry."

"About me?" she asked, like she actually needed to hear the answer aloud.

"Yes, about you."

"Ego much?" she countered, trying to lighten the mood. "You know I could take you, right?"

He laughed gently. "I never doubted it."

She smiled, pleased with his answer. "Coffee's cold. How are you with juice or haven't you really thought about that either?"

"Juice is...refreshing," he attempted, following her into the bright, tidy kitchen like he'd at last stepped inside his own daydream.

"You drink a lot of juice?" she asked dubiously, grabbing a carton out of the fridge.

He grimaced, not wanting her to think he was completely abnormal. Not yet anyhow.

"I guess not," he admitted, suddenly in the middle of a rush of inspiration. "I decided pastry is good," he told her. "Flaky."

Buffy smiled approvingly as she poured what had to be orange juice. "It's a start...."

She faltered suddenly, putting down the carton and looking at him across the breakfast bar as though she'd only just realized he was there. "Do you think this is strange?"

Angel frowned. "It's not supposed to be orange?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "No. This...us. We hardly know each other, but it feels like-"

"Like what?" he said quickly, not sure whether to encourage her or to change the subject.

"It feels so natural to be with you, I feel ...safe. God, I sound like such an idiot."

He came around to her side of the island and took the carton from her, sealing it and putting it back into the fridge. Then he looked at her for a long while, smiling faintly, the ring burning an eager hole in his pocket, his throat constricted.

"You're not an idiot," he said, lowering a tentative kiss to the top of her head, pausing – too long, he knew – to take in her scent, the unfamiliar shampoo, to convince himself that the contact was real.

She looked up at him...amazed, not startled or insulted. It was like something had just occurred to her, something important that had been there, plain to see, the whole time. "Will you stay for a while? That thing about being a big girl...I don't think I can pummel this problem, can I?"

"As long as you need," Angel promised. "I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

Lilah watched the lights flash by with a level of boredom she wasn't used to. Things were progressing well. She'd enjoyed her little visit more than she'd anticipated. It was a shame it was done with. She ran her hand over the leather seat thoughtfully, then picked up her cell phone and dropped a finger onto the button below the window that would activate the partition between herself and the driver.

She pressed six on her speed dial and waited to be connected. The answer came in less than three rings. "The Riley situation is no longer acceptable," she said immediately. "I want it dealt with as soon as possible."

She waited for the response she had expected. "Things might well be going well, but I'm not willing to take risks or put up with delays."

She laughed.

"You have her because I *allow* it. Don't fool yourself into thinking that you or any of your colleagues are indispensable."

She paused to listen vaguely to the protests, rolling her eyes at the strict, tiresome logic. "There are other resources for that...you have my permission to use them as of now, but Buffy is mine. You always knew the endgame."

PART 7

* * *

"Should you discover its hiding place
Don't rejoice at the news"

* * *

Buffy stirred, her shirt twisting at the waist as she wriggled towards him, pulling tightly over her breasts. Angel closed his eyes and made it to four before they sprang open again and he looked down at her, unable to resist watching as her sleeping face, puckered with a troubled little frown.

He shifted on the couch, wrapping an arm around her to pull her with him, worried that she might tumble off. He paid no attention to the television, the movie having finished hours ago, long before Buffy had fallen asleep. They'd talked on and on – well, mostly she'd talked and he'd been happy to listen, feeling like the rest of the world had finally gone away and left them in peace. She sat at the opposite end of the couch at first, swinging her feet up next to him when she was more at ease, eventually stretching out completely like they did this all the time.

They'd lowered their voices after that, like they were exchanging secrets, the television forgotten, and their quiet laughter more intimate than anything Angel had experienced in seven years. He catalogued the way she moved, every characteristic nuance, correcting the mistakes of his memory and berating himself for having forgotten some of the tiniest, most important details like the way her nose wrinkled when he paid her a compliment.

Maybe he'd just never done that enough to notice before.

She'd seen his ring, took his hand artlessly, wanting to figure out the design, pulling him down towards her until the only way he could keep any space between them was to sink one elbow into the pliant, conspiring couch as high up as he could reach. She'd complained about his cold hands, regretting her earlier insistence that he take off his coat, rubbing them between her own while she pleaded with him to explain the significance of his Claddagh...like she enjoyed torturing him.

He told her its origins and she checked its direction, forcing herself – he could see – not to probe any further. She smiled awkwardly as she repeated his words.

"...You belong to somebody."

The silences had grown longer and her eyes had begun to drift. It wouldn't be long before dawn, every moment that slipped by brought him closer to being trapped, to discovery, but he never considered moving. More than ever, after that night, he thought there was a chance she might understand...if he could only explain.

She murmured quietly in her sleep, something unintelligible, but he felt privileged that he was the one to hear it, smiling to himself as her hand pawed restively at his chest. He heard the key turn in the lock, his eyes seizing on the doorway – Joyce wasn't supposed to be back for days...he whispered to Buffy, but she answered with a sleepy grumble, not moving an inch.

"What the hell?"

Riley glared at him like he would take pleasure in ripping off his head – as soon as he'd gotten over the shock. Buffy lifted her bleary eyes slowly, and they found Angel's in confusion, her brow furrowed grumpily.

"Buffy, wake up," he said gently.

"What's going on?" Riley demanded, Angel noticing that he didn't look so good, the bruised, bloodied face not likely to be part of his normal appearance.

Buffy pushed herself upright, turning to see who she could blame for disturbing her...and her eyes widened. She leapt off the couch, hurriedly straightening her clothes. "This is not what it looks like- God, what happened to you?"

Angel couldn't muster any humility, couldn't stare apologetically at the floor. He might not deserve to see Buffy, to spend time with her, to laugh with her – but that was because of the things he'd done. Not because she belonged to some boy. He would never accept that. Never. He didn't care if it was selfish or immoral, he didn't care. Until she told him otherwise – knowing all the facts – he wouldn't believe it. He refused to believe it....and even if she did, if she told him she never wanted to see him again – it wouldn't change anything. No one could persuade him that love had to be mutual.

Buffy was desperately trying to explain herself, swearing that they were just friends, that there was something going on with Lilah, that they'd simply fallen asleep, that she would never cheat...her distress was more than Angel could handle, watching her beg the boy to listen was making him crazy. "She's done nothing wrong. She was upset and I was looking out for her."

Riley was seething, breathing so hard it looked like he might hyperventilate. "Why didn't you call me?"

"You were busy tonight. You didn't expect to be home until morning-"

Riley laughed coldly. "Yeah, well, things didn't go as planned."

"What happened?" she asked, trying to stroke his arm and being shrugged away rudely. "You can talk in front of Angel. He's on our side."

"I'll bet he is," Riley sneered. "When I got in for the briefing, no one was talking...I knew there was something going on. Forrest pulled some kind of rank on me. They wouldn't let me leave."

"God..." Buffy whispered.

Riley looked at Angel like he was deliberately eavesdropping on a private conversation, but his threat went unanswered. Angel's only concern was the boy's arm, the arm that had shoved Buffy aside like she was nothing to him. The simple, split-second reaction telling him everything he would ever need to know about them. Maybe it was something the Initiative had instilled in her, maybe it was because she'd never known Willow or Xander or even Cordelia – for whatever reason – Buffy, *this* Buffy considered herself a subordinate in some way. She felt like she owed the boy something and he might not have been the one to start it, but he'd sure as hell never told her otherwise.

"There's more," Riley said at last. "Buffy...they- they have your mom."

Her jaw dropped open, blood rushing to her heart so fast Angel was amazed no one else seemed to hear it. He jerked forward ready to catch her if she fainted. She looked straight at him, her eyes pleading, like he could make it all a lie if he wanted, then she cast them down guiltily, the emotions too raw, too conflicted.

"We'll find her," Angel promised, not caring that Riley shot him a look of warning, packing it with contempt.

She nodded, like she would believe anything he said. "I need your help," she said softly, "If you could ask-"

"It's done," Angel said. "We're all behind you, all the way."

Buffy nodded again. "I have to talk to Riley-"

"We'll be waiting at the shop," Angel interrupted, not wanting to hear the rest, not needing her look of remorse.

She felt badly enough, without him there to complicate things. He hoped for Riley's sake he didn't plan to make it worse. He knew he would feel the same if the roles were reversed, maybe he wouldn't have been so restrained, and he knew the boy couldn't hope to understand the situation. But still...

He left without another word, watching Buffy for as long as he could, not wasting the precious moments on Riley's scowl, until he was outside again, where the black sky had already begun its fade to gray.

* * *

They waited for Buffy's signal, backs pressed to the wall, the hallway quiet and still in the early dawn, Angel's eyes flicking nervously to the high windows.

Riley waved his group on, Buffy beckoning to those on the other side as they approached the door. They entered first, her crossbow leveled keenly, while his hand hovered over the exotic gun in his holster – tranquillizer bullets, he'd assured them. Angel watched him avidly, not ready to take him at his word...a bullet was a bullet whatever way he justified it.

Angel and Faith followed next, Faith glaring at the couple in front of them, throwing disparaging looks. She didn't approve of their assumed leadership or the military style tactics...and she'd been typically vocal about it. But she came anyway.

Giles, Doyle, Cordelia, Willow, Tara and Amy followed behind them, all insisting they should be there – the entire group, save for Wesley, who wouldn't even answer his phone – each of them, Angel included, with a brown cloth pouch hanging from their necks.

Professor Walsh stared at the myriad of intruders like an entire circus had come to pay her a personal visit. "Well, this is a nice surprise...."

"Where is she?" Buffy demanded.

Walsh raised her eyebrows in innocence.

"We know you have Mrs. Summers," Riley said.

"Really, Agent Finn, I'm disappointed with you. Is all this necessary?"

She stood up, every bit the teacher planning to berate a disobedient child, as Buffy tracked her with the crossbow – Angel fearing she might use it on impulse. Walsh came around to their side of the desk. "Are you going to keep waving that thing at me?"

"I'm trying to decide where to land the first shot," Buffy answered calmly.

"Go ahead, but violence won't solve anything now, will it?"

Riley bristled. "You tried to have me killed-"

"Oh, boo hoo," Faith snapped. "Poor *Agent* Finn."

She pushed forward brazenly, grabbing Walsh by the throat and slamming her head back onto the desk – eliciting a gasp of surprise from somewhere behind him, but not from her victim. "Just open the damn door. We'll find her ourselves."

She pulled the professor back to her feet and shoved her towards the cabinets Riley had identified on the plans. Walsh looked back at them, questioning the order. Faith reacted instantly, her fist flying hard, catching the woman's cheek, making her stumble. Buffy stepped forward-

"Faith," Giles said, his tone holding a warning. "That's not how we do things."

"We?" Faith laughed. "Who the hell is 'we'?"

"Quite a character," Walsh muttered, holding one hand to the red, swelling flesh, opening a concealed panel and tapping at the keypad beneath with the other.

"You can say that again..." Cordelia muttered.

"I always knew you weren't so...nice," Willow accused, Tara clutching her hand in support, as she glared at her one-time scientific idol.

Buffy was already heading down into the tunnel, Amy hesitating behind her. "Who's gonna watch crazy lady?"

Angel had already decided, gripping Professor Walsh's arm securely. "I will," he assured her.

Riley shook his head. "No way."

"Will you get over it?" Faith asked, rolling her eyes, shoving him through the entrance without waiting for a reply and their voices began to disappear.

"So, you're Angel?" Walsh said, as though she was vaguely pleased to meet him.

He looked at her in disgust and let her go. "Sit down."

She started to speak and he put a finger to her lips, silencing her as easily as a child and pushing down into the chair. He sat down on the edge of her desk, inches from her and casually picked up her pen, noting it was inscribed in with her name. Turning it his fingers absently, he stared at her.

"How well do you know Lilah Morgan?" he began, his voice melodic, calculated.

"We're acquainted," she admitted.

Angel nodded. "She has a little obsession with me, doesn't she? I'm sure she's told you all about my past – she'll have told you how serious I am when it comes to Buffy, that I can be a little unreasonable, extreme even. Maybe she's told you the kind of things I could do to you with this fine looking pen...."

He watched her force a show of indifference.

"Let's start at the beginning, shall we?" He leaned forward, holding the tip of the pen just under her chin. "Unless you doubt my intentions?"

Walsh shook her head. "It was Riley. He met Buffy by coincidence-"

"Nothing much happens by coincidence, Professor. Either someone was responsible or it was a part of The Fates' plan."

"I swear," she said, swallowing hard, her voice still even, "It was nothing to do with us. When Riley discovered her abilities, he brought her in. That's when Lilah contacted me. She was monitoring Buffy closely. When I heard how she'd been brought back and explained my theory about the concept of a Slayer, she agreed to let Buffy remain with us until she was ready to use her. She even helped fund the project."

"So she bought you," Angel surmised, not bothering to hide his distaste. "And the Council?"

"We negotiated. They were happy to co-operate with our project, and Lilah was happy she didn't have to hide Buffy away from them."

"How did they bring her back? Why doesn't she remember?"

Walsh was silent for a moment.

"You love her, don't you?"

"Is that your expert opinion?" he said scornfully. "You must be well aware, that people in love can be driven to all sorts of things – that they don't have much patience." He pushed the pen harder. "Keep talking."

She relaxed, warming to the story, almost smiling at him. Clearly, she either had permission to divulge the truth or she relished the chance to betray Lilah. "Wolfram & Hart have many connections in other dimensions, as you must know. It didn't take them too long to locate her, but she was savage, the things that had been done to her-"

"Skip it," Angel ordered, his voice rasping.

Walsh raised her eyebrow and continued. "Her mother was in the hospital – she had a brain tumor. They were able to convince her to agree to an experimental treatment at their private facility. They were free to use her blood samples, DNA, whatever they needed. The Buffy you knew was beyond saving..."

"They didn't know that for sure," he growled, the office suddenly too small to hold his temper, his eyes throbbing with the images waiting to greet him if he dared close them.

"They killed her, took her soul and used her mother's blood to create a new version of her, re-inserting her into the world as a seventeen year-old Slayer as seamlessly as they could. They couldn't accurately replace every single memory – that's beyond the realms of the science or even the magic they had access to. Joyce's memory was altered to match during one of her operations. It was remarkable, really. I'm not sure I believed it myself at first."

"If you've done something to her mother-"

"She's fine. We simply needed a subject to replace Buffy for a while when she became unavailable to us. She would have returned from her trip unaware that anything had happened if you hadn't stormed in here-"

"Was Riley a part of it?" Angel demanded.

Walsh smiled pityingly, shaking her head. "I'm afraid not. He knew nothing about the project. He is simply a young man in love. As you would seem to believe...he was just following his destiny."

* * *

Buffy's heart pounded wildly when she caught the first glimpse of her mom laying on some space-aged stretcher, eyes closed, pasty and weak, it was like slipping back all those years....

God, she couldn't stand it.

She scarcely felt the impact of her fists, kept going without bothering to recoil or recover, as she fought her way through – taking down technicians, scientists, armed guards – without distinction. Some of them she recognized, some she'd never seen before...probably because they spent their whole lives locked away in the restricted labs at the very back of the facility, like the one they were in now.

Within moments, she'd reached the bedside, striking down a junior assistant without thought, ignoring the fighting that continued around her – Riley's shout from behind her. "Mom? Mom, can you hear me?"

Buffy watched her eyelids flutter gently, refusing to open, praying she hadn't imagined the faint moan. She scanned the room, her eyes landing on Doyle and Cordelia in the far corner.

"Help me!" she yelled, pulling her mother into her arms as Doyle came up beside her. "Take her...."

It was a question, not an order and Doyle nodded. "We'll take care of it."

She watched them go, feeling the weight of panic on her chest. She heard someone shout her name in the rapidly quieting room...searching for its origin, she found Giles beckoning her. She skirted around the sickening, scattered, unconscious bodies to where he stood with Tara and Amy staring down onto the lower levels.

Buffy pressed her fingers to the glass partition, hardly aware of Willow still chanting her spell softly a few feet away, or Faith coming up behind her, or Riley apologizing to his friend – the last of the guards – before knocking him out.

There were less that ten of them – babies, toddlers, none more than three or four years old, dressed in thin, blue hospital smocks, blonde, smiling, crying. Two women in nurse's uniforms sat amongst them in the stark white room and were encouraging them to play with strange looking toys or co-operate with the other adults dressed in sterile lab coats.

It was like a nightmare.

Faith broke the silence. "Slayers?"

"It's horrible...." Tara whispered.

"Get them out of here," Buffy ordered, furious. "Take the courtyard exit."

Giles nodded at her and pushed open the door that would lead them down. Amy followed, Tara glancing back uncertainly at Willow as the shriek of alarms began to sound and the thud of military boots seemed to come at them from all directions.

"Go. I won't let anything happen to her," she swore.

They turned and made their way down the corridor as Buffy nodded to Willow to continue, standing shoulder to shoulder between Riley and Faith, ready to fight.

Angel burst through the main doorway followed by five members of the primary security team, every one of whom Buffy knew by name.

"Stand down," she ordered as they pulled their guns, forming a semi-circle on the other side of Angel who stood helpless between the two groups.

"Protocol, Buffy. He attacked Professor Walsh – she's unconscious."

"You don't understand," she pleaded, taking a small step forward, watching for signs that Willow's spell was working. She saw their arms begin to sink slightly, heavily.

"He set off the alarms. We have to detain all HSTs-"

"You're wrong!" she cried, her breath hitching as Riley advanced, his gun in one hand, her crossbow in the other, now both leveled at Angel.

"Is that true?" he demanded as his colleagues began to falling to the floor, unable to stay upright.

"Riley, please don't do this...."

"It's true," Angel said quietly.

Buffy felt like he'd stuck her, everything crowding in on her at once, the lights glaring too harshly, Faith watching her like it was some kind of freak show.

Willow's spell died away. "It's not what you think...let him explain."

"Do it fast," Riley barked.

Angel looked straight at her, excluding everyone else, drowning her in questions and confusion. "I told you about the curse, about the spell...."

His tone was solemn and resigned, like these would be his last words to her. She nodded mutely.

Riley moved even closer, steadying his aim again when he'd chosen his position. "Nice to know you've had time to exchange anecdotes."

Angel's expression didn't flicker. "I'm a vampire, Buffy. I was cursed by gypsies. They cursed me with a soul that I would lose if I ever-"

"Pure happiness," she finished, the words coming to her from nowhere.

He nodded, stunned, his eyes clouding over for a second. He forced himself to continue, "I did terrible things. I slaughtered innocent people for nothing more than sick gratification...I'll never find a high enough price to pay for what I've done."

"We agree on something at least."

"Riley, stop it," Buffy whispered. "He's telling the truth."

"He is," Willow added firmly.

"He can't prove any of it!" Riley cried, incredulous, defiant.

She knew he was on the brink of pulling one of the triggers, but he was too far away; she couldn't take him down safely.

"I'm not lying, Buffy. Let him do whatever he wants, but don't forget that. When I lost my soul, I hurt the people that mattered most-"

"It was my birthday. It was raining."

She felt the first wretched tear roll down her cheek, desolate and lost – in control, in an environment she knew so well, surrounded by those who cared about her – but it was inside that it hurt, in her head that she didn't know where to look, which thoughts were real, where the pressure was building, disfiguring...becoming pain. She fought to keep breathing, blinking purposefully, the fear, shock, mirrored in his eyes as she made herself bring them back into focus.

"Angel?"

Willow gasped and Buffy looked at her, the familiar face becoming something more, meaning something different.

"What is this?" Riley growled, throwing reality at her with reckless anger.

She shook her head, trying to clear the contradictory thoughts, the vague, erratic memories that weren't hers, trying to push them away. "I don't understand. Everything you said?"

She looked at Angel, pleading for an explanation, the image of him kissing her, the same one – the one she'd dreamed this morning – now more vivid than ever...etched into her mind like it had happened moments ago. His voice resounding through her, his cool fingers brushing her chin, threading into her hair....

He was watching her silently, his eyes showing her hundreds of things she couldn't reach, couldn't make sense of.

"I'm not her," she whispered. "I'm Buffy Summers."

"Buffy-"

"God, no!" The way he said her name – it slipped past his lips as easily as if he could breathe again, like it was the only word he knew.

"This is bullshit!" Riley shouted, releasing one of her own, commissioned arrows.

Angel's arm shot out to deflect it and Willow shrieked, charging forward, her palm outstretched – a bolt of electric, blue light carrying the dart safely to the floor as Riley and Angel collided brutally. Angel avoided the first blows, reluctant to hit back until Riley caught his chin, whipping his head viciously to one side. He righted himself, his eyes fierce, attacking with a strong kick to Riley's stomach, catching him off balance, making him stumble towards her.

Buffy reached for Riley's arm, dragging him back forcefully, glancing over her shoulder at Faith, who was leaning against the wall with her arms folded, no intention of getting involved at all. No intention of helping.

"Let me go," Riley growled. Buffy jerked him to face her as Angel stood back reluctantly, balling his fists with restraint.

"You don't understand-"

"So you keep saying," he argued. "Why don't you try explaining? Huh? Have you been seeing him behind my back?"

"No," Buffy cried. "I can't explain anything when you're like this, when you won't trust me."

"That's a little rich, honey. Since there seems to be some discrepancy about who *you* are exactly."

"I'm Buffy," she said calmly. "You know me."

"I thought I did. The Buffy I know doesn't make friends with vampires-"

"These guys are gonna wake up any second," Willow said urgently, not caring that she was interrupting, no weak apology in her adult voice.

Buffy nodded. "We have to get out of here."

She backed away from Riley, slowing, coming to a halt right in front of Angel, feeling his presence behind her like a physical ache. His reassuring hand claiming her shoulder, branding it painfully like a raw wound re-cut and exposed. "Riley? Are you coming with us?"

He laughed roughly. "Us? You're an item now?"

"That's not what I meant-"

"Does it matter?" he asked, panic-stricken, his eyes fitful, frenzied. "You need to make a choice here-"

"Don't," Angel warned. The tone of his voice telling her it was intended for Riley, the word reverberating in every cell of her body.

"Who asked you? What happened to Mr. Cuddly Vampire?"

"Not when it comes to her," Angel reminded him.

"Wrong answer," Faith muttered.

Buffy saw the flash of the blade a split second before she lunged. She felt Angel try to knock her aside even as she went to deflect the blow from him. She heard a shot, turning her head in time to see him fall. Everything seemed to slow as Faith's hand reached her, the knife slipping into her side easily.

She saw Faith's eyes widen in surprise even before the second shot rang out, a circle of dark blood pooling around the wound, dripping down her neck.

* * *

The fluorescent strip made her look wax-like, paler than she should, her eyes closed heavily. Didn't they know it would be kinder to turn out the lights, leave her in the dark so that, when she woke up, she could look over out of the window and see the stars smiling back at her? He swallowed down the grief, refusing to acknowledge it, refusing to let it take root.

Riley looked up as he walked into the room, rising from the ridiculous blue plastic chair. "You survived," he noted bitterly.

Angel stood perfectly still. "Get out."

The boy glanced at Buffy, his heart pounding visibly, his jaw clenched. "I'll be right outside," he warned, stopping as they stood shoulder to shoulder. "She was calling for you. When this is over, you'll pay for whatever you did to her."

Angel watched him leave, his head bowed low with lost sleep and frustration. He felt sorry for him, understood the measure of the rejection. He went over to the bed, looking in disgust at the needle pushed up beneath the delicate skin of her hand, at her hair brushed carefully around her face – by Riley? Willow? A fine shimmer of sweat highlighted her face. He sat down on the low chair, noting its instability, taking her hand and frowning at the forbidding lack of warmth. He thought about buying her gloves. She lay dying in front of him and he thought about buying her gloves.

"Hey," she whispered, her voice croaking.

He tried to smile. "Sorry, I couldn't come sooner. I was unconscious...something new we have in common."

"He missed the heart. I always said he was a lousy shot."

"It was a tranquilizer," he said, regretting the look of apology that covered the other expressive tones in her eyes from him. She could talk about Riley, he was her boyfriend. "I heal fast," he added pointlessly.

"Faith?"

Angel didn't know how to answer, his anger still too acute and encompassing to leave room for any compassion.

"I never liked guns, no matter how safe the ammunition is supposed to be," Buffy told him, reading his silence perfectly. "Things are-"

"Complicated." He said, nodding.

Her smile widened. "Did either of us ever get to finish a sentence of our own?"

He stared at her, the acknowledgement hitting him like the splash of ice water – holy water – with a welcome sting. "What you did-"

"Getting stabbed for you?" she provided.

He looked at her seriously, trying to make her listen. "I didn't mean today."

"I know what you meant."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "It can never be enough-"

"Stop," she insisted. "I don't want you to be sorry. We can't be sorry."

She closed her eyes for a while and Angel wondered if she was remembering...what she might be remembering.

"The pictures – they're all fuzzy at the edges," she said finally, looking at him once again. "Xander? And Oz..."

He shook his head sadly, unable to do any more for her – to take back the fresh burden of grief.

"We really were an underworld endorsement for opposites attract, huh? Boy. Girl. Vampire. Vampire Slayer. Immortal. Soon to be dead-"

He jolted forward, his hand gripping hers too hard. "Don't say that. Nothing's going to happen to you."

"What if it's not true? What if I'm just some kind of experiment like those kids?"

"Listen to me," he said urgently, waiting for her to look at him, sure that if he held on tightly enough she couldn't slip away. "I would know. I'd know you anywhere."

"Tell me a story," she whispered. "Something about us. I want to remember with you. I want to believe it, Angel...I'm scared."

He traced the single tear all the way down her cheek, not sure that he could speak, not sure that he could bear to see her like this and do nothing, but sit and talk to her. He took the ring from his pocket, uncurling her fingers and pressing it into her palm. "Your birthday present," he said quietly. "I gave it to you that night at the docks."

"Like yours," she sighed, resting her head back on the pillow wearily, smiling at the same time.

He brought her small fist to his lips, unable to stop himself, watching her eyes as they flickered and closed.

A high pitched trill assaulted his ears. He called out to her, but she didn't wake as Riley and Giles appeared at the door, nurses following behind them.

"What's happening?" he demanded, as someone tried to pull him aside.

"They can help her," Giles promised.

"Is she going to die?"

"There was a poison. It has to be mystical. There's no cure-"

"Find one," Angel bit out acidly, watching Giles for any hint of omission.

"I don't want to lose her again any more than you do," he said. "Doyle already tried The Powers That Be – they won't reverse it. It was meant for you. We're out of time-"

Angel turned his back.

"Stay with her."

PART 8

* * *

"Fortune cares for no one
Not her not I not you"

* * *

He threw open the doors, letting them slam against either side of the wall, and stalked over to the desk, sweeping its entire contents onto the floor with a single brush of his arm.

"Fix it."

Lilah raised her eyebrows, rocking leisurely in her chair. "Thought I might be due a visit, things aren't exactly as I'd had in mind..."

"I didn't come here for small talk," he hissed. "Save her. You did it once. You can do it again."

Lilah shrugged, waving away the security staff as they filed in behind him. "You seem to have me mixed up with God, or at least the good guys. I don't have power over life and death."

"The poison was mystical. It was meant for me."

She pouted. "Nothing I can do I'm afraid...oh...wait...you want me to re-insert her?"

He stared silently as she stood up and began to circle him.

"She won't remember everything...even if you're very, very specific. It'll be like starting all over again – a bit like recycling – so you might want to think about that contract, Angel. There's a certain amount of deterioration each time. Did you notice? She missing a little pep maybe? Sorry about that. Imagine if we brought her in and out, over and over-"

"Do it," Angel ordered.

"You'll sign?"

"No. He won't." Wesley stood in the doorway, his gun pointed straight at Lilah's head. "Not until you tell me what you've done with my wife."

Lilah quirked an eyebrow. "The skinny one? Haven't seen her. Sorry."

"It's all linked," he said intently. "The hotel in Doyle's vision, the Initiative, the Council...all of it traces back to Wolfram & Hart. All of it bankrolled with your dirty money. You ruined my career, but that wasn't enough. I came home one day and our apartment was a mess. I thought we'd been robbed. They even tore down the Christmas tree, left the ribbons strewn all over the floor, the presents ripped open – I remember thinking it was such a shame all those surprises were ruined. I bought her a microscope, you see, the one she wanted..."

Lilah was backing away. "Is he nuts?"

Wesley released the safety catch, his hand shaking. "Where's my wife?"

Angel stepped forward. "We'll find her, Wesley. Give me the gun and we'll find her."

"Not until she admits it!" he shouted, perspiration collecting at his lips.

"I *really* can't take the glory for this one-"

"Shut up, Lilah." Angel looked Wesley in the eye, trying to keep him focused. "This isn't you, Wesley. If you do this, your destiny's gone. Think of Fred. You were meant to be together, you know that. Don't cheat yourself of that by ending up in jail. We'll find her."

Wesley lowered the gun and Lilah glanced at Angel with a humorless smile. "Thanks a million," she said flatly, looking behind him towards the door.

"I couldn't help overhearing," Lindsey said casually. "You're looking for Winifred Burkle and a miracle cure, right? I think I just might be able to help."

Wesley raised the gun again, his nostrils flaring, eyes wild.

Lindsey grinned boldly. "This way, then – sorry, Lilah, only room for three."

* * *

"Fred, honey, could you come down here a second? We have guests...."

Lindsey invited them to take a seat on one of the high stools that had emerged behind them...along with tables, computers, lab equipment...the room was still large and roughly square with wide entrances both in front and behind them, but there were automated, sliding doors instead of the old swinging variety they'd walked in through. The whole fabric of the place had changed. It looked like some room from inside the Initiative itself and Angel noted it with apprehension, fearing they were still being played by Lilah and Lindsey and Walsh...all of them.

Wesley bridled with impatience, his anxiety bleeding into the air. Finally there were footsteps. He and Angel both craned their necks to find the cause while Lindsey watched them with mild amusement as Fred stepped out onto the top step of the right-hand staircase behind them.

Her expression was stony, unfamiliar. "Is this some kind of trick? It won't work. I'll never tell you. Not until you let me go."

She hardly even glanced in Wesley's direction, but tears of relief rolled down his cheeks as though she'd flown into his arms. Angel knew exactly what he was feeling; it seemed so isolating to be looking at it from the outside...with hindsight.

Lindsey walked up between them, dropping a friendly hand onto each of their shoulders. "Aren't you even going to say hello? You're a better hostess than that, aren't you?"

To Wesley's credit, he didn't even seem to notice Lindsey was speaking, staring straight ahead and not daring to move or speak in case she vanished before his eyes. "Fred...it's me," he said slowly.

"I'm not an idiot," she spat, her face hardening into a vicious warning, something Angel had never seen before, not even in Pylea where she'd fought for her life everyday.

"We want to take you home," Angel promised.

"Really, Fred, I'm hurt that you think I'd pull something like this-"

"Again, you mean? Like the time my *parents* came? The time they were going to take me home...as long as I explained how I made it all work."

Wesley looked sideways at Lindsey for a moment, shrugging his hand of and swinging one fist back abruptly, punching him hard, papers and strange apparatus scattering over the marbled floor as Lindsey was thrown back against a table.

He grasped at the corner to steady himself, adjusting his jaw. "That was uncalled for."

"Your parents are safe at home, Fred. I visit them often," Wesley said, like he was somehow holding up an utterly normal conversation.

Fred came down a step. "You're going to ask me to activate it again, aren't you? What if I say no this time? I'll never teach you how, no matter what you do to me...I won't be here forever."

"Fred, I have no idea what you've been through, I know you're probably a little scared right now," Angel spread his hands, palms open, wanting to show her that he had nothing to hide. "We *are* going to ask you to activate it...whatever it is. I need your help. A girl is dying, Fred. It's Buffy. I found her, but she's dying. Please, I'm asking you to help me. Either way, we're not leaving without you. We've come to take you home."

She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing his face for the slightest mark of a lie, inching down the remaining steps to stand in front of the door. "*It* is a method of travel. From this level of reality to the highest – or deepest, depending how you want to think of it. They're not separate, they're superimposed on top of each other, what you're standing in right now is a kind of in between layer."

"That's why we couldn't find you," Wesley whispered.

"I can get you an audience with The Fates."

Lindsey smirked, his success somehow assured. "Isn't she something?"

"Communication with them is only one way-" Angel protested.

"Not anymore," Lindsey announced. "Unfortunately, Fred here is the only one who knows how it works and she's determined to use the knowledge as leverage. She has this crazy notion that if she's no longer useful, I'll have her killed."

"She's a good judge of character," Angel said, glaring at him, swearing to someday ruin him piece by piece until he learned what it meant to take another person's freedom. "Fred, we don't need to now how it works. When you're done, you can burn the whole place to the ground if you want...but we're running out of time. Can you do this?"

She looked so confused and so small, biting anxiously at her lips. "Why do you need to see the Fates? They won't help."

"Oh, they will," Lindsey promised. "That's what all this was for. This was the deal, sweetheart. I did it all on Angel and Buffy's behalf."

"We'll be sure to award you your Good Samaritan badge," Wesley said darkly.

Lindsey ignored him and continued: "The Fates are the last stop. They have control over everyone...The Powers That Be, the Senior Partners...well, everyone except Buffy and Angel, that is."

"Gee, I feel so special."

"Go ahead, mock...your thread was cut, buddy, and yet here you are dead and kicking. You shouldn't even exist, whereas Buffy: She was supposed to live, but she died, then Lilah meddled around a bit – can you imagine what a mess you two made? When your time is up – immortal or not – you're supposed to be gone. And you don't go around dying without permission either – not to mention coming back again and picking up your destiny where it left off. I'm glad I'm not in charge of the damage control that little accident will require."

Angel frowned, looking to Fred for confirmation that any of it could be true. She didn't even appear to blink.

"The Powers That Be don't want Buffy back. She can't have resumed her destiny," he reasoned.

"Exactly. She's grabbing pieces here and there. Your bosses certainly don't trust anything Lilah had her hand in to head up their army. No, everyone would much rather have you for that."

Wesley frowned. "What do you get out of it?"

"Do you know what it means to have two living creatures roaming around with no ties to The Fates? They want the cute little lovebirds under their control – badly – that's why it's a good time for Angel here to ask for a favor. Me? Well, I figure, if I'm bringing this guy in? Lady Luck will be smiling on me for the rest of my days-"

Wesley didn't even let him finish. "Remind me. Why are we trusting him again?"

"Because we have no other option-"

Angel stopped. The room began to shift and fade and turn, the colors mixing together like pasty smears on a palette. The furniture melted away until everything was even whiter than before, the walls, the floor...the bright, shadowless light. Beneath their feet, an vast antique rug appeared stretching out in all directions, frayed so badly there were no straight edges; ragged, abstract tapestries hung from the walls at random – some large and colorful, others worn, threadbare....

Fred was suddenly right in front of them, her arms thrown around Wesley's neck, her eyes flooding with hot, frantic tears. He buried his face in her hair, whispering to her. Angel couldn't stand to watch, feeling his own misery haunt him, spoiling the pleasure of the reunion, making it seem more private – making his presence intrusive.

There were figures in front of him, pulsating to life, their features slowly forming, defining...the shapes – their composition – too familiar.

"Is this some kind of test?"

He stood, staring into the face of his long dead sire. Her eyes danced with amusement as always, like this were just another meeting in the grand scheme of their bond. Spike with his long leather coat and Drusilla, still in the same scarlet dress he last remembered seeing her in, flanked her, one on each side. She smiled like the innocent, catholic school-girl she'd never been, whatever the outfit suggested. Spike's lips were pursed thoughtfully, hands clasped behind his back and Drusilla swayed to and fro wriggling her arms like they itched.

"Don't be alarmed, Angelus. These creatures are long passed from the world. We were expecting you, that is all. We thought to present you with a manifestation you might recognize."

He made to speak and the creature wearing Darla's face held up her hand, muting the sound as easily as flipping a switch.

"Manners," Spike warned.

"Most species are vain enough to imagine that their superiors share their crude, limiting forms," she said coolly. "It is sometimes better to allow them their arrogance."

Drusilla laughed. "This body makes me tingle!"

Spike shook his head impatiently. "You've been in it far too long, pet."

Darla cleared her throat. "I'll be doing the talking, remember. It's my vocation they've seen fit to toy with. When I cut a thread, I don't usually expect an argument. You and your pet slayer have proved tedious and irksome."

"We know why you're here," Spike sighed with the exact measure of boredom and exasperation Angel remembered. He didn't know how to stand there and not think he was faced with more ghosts from his past, more tricks and illusions.

"And the last time you and your beloved Buffy were allowed to co-exist, it was an unprecedented disaster. So, tell me, why should we help you?" Darla asked seductively.

Angel stared, trying to make himself believe it was real. Wesley stood next to him, Fred tucked protectively into his side, while Lindsey stayed further back, enjoying the scene. None of it was possible.

He made to answer, but still there was no sound.

Drusilla was humming. "Naughty child, mummy isn't finished."

"You believe she is truly the same, don't you? The Chosen One of old. No imitation."

All he could do was nod.

"Then you will both agree to submit to our will. In return you will be re-instated to the world with new purpose."

Drusilla giggled, backing toward the wall, rubbing sensuously against one of the tapestries, rolling her head from side to side. "I've been practicing for you," she sang, scratching her nails obsessively, reverently, over the pattern. "Do you think you'll like it?"

Angel stayed quiet, motionless, studying them with careful attention – waiting for the catch.

"Don't look at me," Spike said. "I just churn the bloody things out. I must say you've lasted better than I expected."

"There will be a test. Buffy must prove she is who you believe her to be: a warrior worthy of the destiny she once claimed and you must prove what you are willing to sacrifice. She must correct her mistake. She must kill you. Her success will be enough to assure us of her loyalty – The Powers That Be will not be permitted to dispute it in any way. You will then be re-inserted and, as arranged, your destiny will be given to the Senior Partners to lead their forces at the End of Days."

Angel curbed his disgust, refusing to look at Lindsey, refusing to give him that small, additional satisfaction. Let him celebrate his victory alone.

"Thus things shall be balanced," Darla declared, sitting on the step in front of him, her fragile human figure somehow distorting as she wielded her power so heedlessly. "No other terms will be heard. Do you accept?"

Wesley watched him and Fred's eyes were wide and pleading. He shut them out, staring straight at Darla, nodding his head once.

* * *

Angel peered through the glass, raking her body for signs of life – she looked so small and alone in that bed. So lost. He ignored everyone around him, shutting out their concern and the hushed cries of relief as they saw Fred and embraced her after such a long time, such a long absence.

Giles came up beside him, standing quietly for a moment before he was able to speak. "She slipped into a coma. They don't expect her to make it through the night," he said simply, resigned to the cruelty of it all, though his voice wavered like he might break at any moment.

Willow lingered in the middle of Buffy's room, staring at her like she was something alien, tears falling silently down her pallid cheeks and her jaw set in pointless defiance.

"She's done everything she came," Giles assured him. "The Powers themselves-"

"The Powers aren't everything."

Giles nodded. "If you do this and you fight against us-"

"You'll kill me?" Angel asked. "I'm counting on it."

"I don't know if they can keep going without you."

Angel kept his shoulders firm, resisting the need to hunch with the strain of resolution. "There'll always be someone ready to step up as leader when the time comes, but if you have Buffy, if you get her back...you'll be unstoppable."

"I hope you're right," Giles said and Angel walked on, entered Buffy's room, the others following quietly, ignoring all the rules about visitors. Willow didn't even stir.

"Joyce has been asking..." Tara began. "I wasn't sure what to say."

"Nothing," Angel decided. "Tell her nothing."

Doyle stood to his left, hands shoved dejectedly into his pockets. "Riley's been called in for questioning. Faith still hasn't come round."

"Do what you can to help him and see that she's taken care of."

They waited for him to say more, but he stood in silence, watching the manufactured rise and fall of Buffy's breath, the machines whirring softly, blinking tirelessly, determined to keep her there, static and cold.

"I can't believe how cruel this is," Fred whispered, somewhere behind him, finding comfort in her husband's arms.

"You've saved her life," Angel said quietly. "I'll always be grateful."

"Don't talk like that...."

"Doyle's right," Cordelia insisted. "We'll figure this out."

"Go back to the magic shop. Wait there."

He didn't turn around, sensing as they drained away from him one by one. Cordelia wrapped her arms around him briefly, told him it was going to be okay, that they couldn't just scrape his name off the door and find a new champion, until Doyle gently pulled her away. Fred brushed his arm as she left, hesitating to go without Wesley.

Willow was the only one who never moved at all.

"You don't believe there's a way out, do you?" Wesley asked when just the three of them remained.

Angel didn't answer.

"I know what it's like – when you'll do anything. You have a very dedicated team. I understand that now and I understand why. I'd be honored to be counted among them."

"You already are," Angel stated. "Don't lose her again."

"Thank you," Wesley said simply, leaving them alone at last.

Angel walked over to the bed and disconnected the various wires, hauling Buffy's wilted, lifeless body into his arms and lifting her, cradling her neck. He noticed the ring spinning on Willow's outstretched palm for the first time and stopped, letting her come towards them.

"They tried to take it from her, for safe keeping," she explained. "It's not right. She should wear it."

Angel held Buffy's arm as still as she could while Willow slipped the ring onto her finger, the inert chill unnoticed, Willow tracing the design with satisfaction.

"I'll bring her back to you Willow, but you have to promise me – promise me you'll take care of her. She'll need you to help her, make her understand..."

She nodded, every inch the fifteen year-old girl he'd first known her to be, as though she'd lost her grasp and the years, unshackled, had simply slithered away, leaving her vulnerable and inexperienced.

"I won't put her through this over and over. There won't be a third time. I need you to do something for me: I'm going to ask you to do something and trust me no matter what anyone says, not The Powers That Be, not even the Fates, Willow, do you understand?"

It was like asking a babe in arms to change the world.

* * *

They pulled up outside the Hyperion, Buffy rousing as if on cue: her head lifting first, then her eyelids...it was fate Angel realized with cool resentment.

"Angel? What happened?" she asked, still groggy, drugged with sleep.

He reached over and tilted her chin up with his fingers, finding her a smile. "We're going to make you well again."

She looked puzzled, searching out of the windows for some kind of clue as to where they were, an indication that she wasn't dreaming. "But I feel fine?"

"We're going to make sure you stay that way," he answered, brushing the loose hair back over her shoulder, staring at her intently. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"We were talking- I was in the hospital."

He nodded. "That's good. We've pulled some pretty big strings today, Buffy. We have to pass a kind of test."

"A test? I haven't studied..."

He laughed, amazed that she could drag the frivolous sound from him at that moment – in truth, it counted as one of the better moments in his many years, like every moment with her, but knowing she would live....

What more could he ask for?

She pulled at the white tank-top she was wearing, eyeing it uncertainly. "Whose clothes am I wearing?"

"Willow's- look, Buffy this is important. You have to do exactly as I say, promise me-"

"Where is everyone? My mom?"

He took her hand, praying to some kind of power, anything out there that wasn't trying to screw them over...praying that he could make her listen. "You'll see her soon. You'll see them all soon. They all love you very much, don't forget that. I know your memories are confused, but they can help if you let them. They'll be there for you."

She shook her head, frowning deeply. "Where are we, Angel? This doesn't feel right...."

He pulled her closer, savoring the experience of holding her without guilt, sure that no one could deny him that now. "You just have to trust me, Buffy. I'll make sure everything's as it should be."

* * *

Willow continued as if no one had spoken, letting the argument swirl away from her of its own accord. Three candles: gold, black and red, the inscriptions torn through their outer flesh with a sharp knife soaked in hemlock, crystals – bloodstone, black obsidian – a dish of herbs, of rue, yarrow, dittany of Crete...

"I'm the last person who would want to meet Angelus again, or force Buffy to fight him, but this is too risky – we have no idea what the result will be projecting such a spell into another layer of reality. Who knows what could happen?"

"It's what Angel wanted," Wesley said, calming Giles as he watched Willow and Fred side by side in preparation. "They'll do their best to make it as accurate as they can."

"We haven't had time to research. The portal you create could literally lead anywhere – it could fracture this reality as well. Someone please listen to reason!"

"I'm right behind Sense-Talking-Man," Cordelia said. "Angel never thinks straight when it comes to Buffy. I don't get why you're all still struggling with the concept."

The bell tinkled with its usual pleasant ring – a spiteful reminder that the world kept ceaselessly turning – they all looked around immediately, hoping for some kind of reprieve, Willow ready to snap at whoever left the door unlocked.

Wesley stood up. "Lilah."

She smiled at him, eyeing the place critically and obviously finding it lacking. "I see you rescued the little woman. Good for you."

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Wow, marital bliss mellows you right out." She walked towards them with folded arms. "Since you ask: Lindsey made you guys a better offer and I lost out. He won off the back of *my* plan and now I'm as good as dead. I fully intend to take him down with me, so whatever the deal is? I want in."

Cordelia laughed scornfully. "This is classic! We're supposed to believe you're suddenly switching sides?"

Lilah raised her eyebrows. "Don't flatter yourself, dear. It's no coincidence Wolfram & Hart's most prominent branch is located extremely close to Ye Olde Hellmouth. I do not even want to meet the things you guys have to look forward to fighting – assuming I live that long."

"I'm sure you have a plan up your sleeve," Doyle sneered.

She smirked. "Nice to know you have such faith in me."

"If Lindsey fails too, you might both escape with a slap on the wrist by laying the blame elsewhere. The Fates, for example," Giles guessed.

"Oooh," Lilah purred. "He's your thinker, right?"

"Either way? Buh-bye." Cordelia waved, her eyes narrowed viciously.

Willow stopped her. "Wait a second...the dimension you found Buffy in, you know how to access it?"

* * *

The identical swords lay crossed on the floor in the center of the otherwise empty lobby. Whistler and Lindsey stood together before the set of doors they'd come through, the Fates on the opposite side – indistinct, shadowy, like they weren't entirely sure they were inclined to be there.

Angel retrieved the weapons, ignoring them all, his eyes focused only on Buffy as he offered her the hilt of one sword and told her to take it, raising it insistently when it looked like she might refuse. She didn't.

She cast her gaze nervously around the room, pausing with the Fates, bewildered by the impossible recognition.

"Just an illusion," he assured her.

"You may begin when you wish," Darla declared.

Buffy looked at him with a blank expression, so innocent and confused, as though she might still be asleep, still be dreaming. He had to make her focus.

"Spar with me," he said, tapping her sword gently, positioning himself en garde and nodding at her – encouraging her to do the same. She absorbed her surroundings warily. The dimly lit lobby was suddenly harsher and more dilapidated when he imagined it through her eyes – the spectators too numerous and intimidating.

"Look straight at me," he told her. "They're not here. It's just you and me."

She nodded and began with a few tentative strokes, her blade rapping lightly against his own, echoing without melody. "Good," he said, speeding his movements, making her worker harder to keep him at bay. "Concentrate."

She did, her eyes darkening as intuition and impulse took over. He lent more power to his attacks and she met him well, blocking with natural speed, assaulting him strategically. He lunged swiftly, scratching her arm and drawing first blood. He felt sick with remorse and hunger and regret, watching the red stain spread over her skin.

She gasped when she saw it, like the pain hadn't touched her. Frowning, her eyes strayed towards the stairs again.

"Just you and me," he reminded her, reclaiming her attention. "Don't let it happen again."

She came back at him, with purpose this time, her whole body following with the action, her tactics, devices – modest but unpredictable. She looked like she was starting to enjoy it, her eyes glowing as they found his, her movements light and unhindered. Like she'd convinced herself this would be nothing more than a show of swordsmanship – one that he should prepare to lose.

He heard the low hiss and the murmurs echoing behind him, feinting from her lunge with no more than a lucky guess at her direction, and glancing over his shoulder. The floor seemed to drain away, circling down towards a point not seven feet away...he almost sighed with relief as it seemed to draw in some of the uncertainty. He turned back to face her as she renewed her attack, dodging the next two attempts until, on the third, she wound her blade briefly to the left, duping him, and swinging back down to dislodge his weapon completely. She didn't mark her victory with any sound of her own as his sword clattered to the floor and she held the very tip of her blade to his chin.

He stared at her hard, refusing to let her relax or lower her arm.

"Finish it," he demanded.

"What?"

Her voice was impossibly small.

"Finish it," he repeated, this time only a whisper, lifting her blade with his palm as it began to stray down towards his chest. Even the air seemed to still around them, the roar of the vortex opening behind him, subdued, barely worth their notice.

She shook her head. "I can't-"

"Do it."

She shook her head again in despair, looking wildly at him like she'd found herself in some nightmare. She dropped her arm to her side, not quite able to unclench her hand from the hilt.

"What the hell's happening?" Lindsey shouted.

Spike silenced him immediately. "Stay back, you tart, before I decide to get Dru here to make your firstborn son a cricket player."

"Make sure he doesn't interfere," Darla ordered. "This could be more interesting than we thought."

Buffy stood frozen, unable to do anything, but stare. She pleaded with him and he repeated his demand over and over like a mantra until she shook her head continuously, backing away.

He seized her arms, stopping her in her tracks, shaking her hard. "Buffy, you have to do it. Please – for me. I'm asking you to finish it, there's no other way."

"I can't," she whispered hoarsely. "I can't...."

Her breath hitched with a quiet sob and he pulled her to him as a tear tracked down his cheek – burning the cool skin, making him feel it through all his carefully constructed defenses.

"There's no other way," he whispered, pressing his lips to her ear, to her shoulder her hair.... "There's no other way. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"No," she choked. "No!"

He threaded his hand through her hair, kissing her hard, crushing her, his mouth wet and salty with tears he couldn't attribute to either of them for sure. He felt like he was drowning, like today, tomorrow and yesterday had blurred so much he couldn't tell them apart. Tasting her again was more intoxicating than he'd imagined. He ordered himself over and over again to pull away, the tug of her hand on his shoulder demanding him closer, the blade hanging at her side, forgotten.

"Please, Buffy," he murmured against her mouth. "Please..."

She gulped for air as she looked up at him, the refusal flaming defiantly in her eyes. She slowed her breath, smoothing out her heart beat...then she tilted her head to the side, letting her hair fall away to expose her neck.

"You finish it."

He froze, confused now, forgetting how he'd known it was all real, how he'd been so sure only moments earlier.

"I've seen this part already," Darla sighed.

"Really?" Whistler asked. "This is worse than my last time and that's saying something."

Angel snapped his head to the side, feeling his eyes flash a warning to all of them, feeling his teeth hone sharply, his features transforming.

"Go ahead," Buffy invited. "Show me how it's done. Show me how easy it is to finish it," she said, arching closer so he could smell her clammy, unscented skin, hear the blood rushing beneath.

He shook his head, half in refusal, half in disbelief at how deftly she'd turned the tables, a growl climbing from his throat.

"Not so easy?"

She was talking like that was it. Game over. He brought his hands up to her shoulders, gripping them tightly, watching, waiting for her to flinch and back down.

"Go on," she taunted. "Show me."

He sank down, fangs slicing through her flesh like she was ethereal, part of the living daydream he'd existed in for so long, but the coppery tang of her blood was more basic and distinct than anything that he'd known, the essence of it, the power...

She relaxed in his arms, trembling, her breaths drawn out – fragile. He jerked back instantly, gulping for grounding air, clearing his face of the mask he hated so much.

She brought a hand to her neck, like it was no more than the scratch on her arm.

He desperately fought the last hint of amber from his eyes, clinging to her. "They need you, Buffy. There's no more time, you have to do this for me."

She removed her hand, looked at the Claddagh on her finger, smeared with blood, and for a moment he thought it was all lost. The understanding in her eyes when she looked back at him made him question his choice for the first and only time. But, there was no other way.

Buffy had to live.

"I was wrong," he said quietly. "I've seen her, she's suffering, and she's all alone. I don't know how they made me believe-"

"Angel, don't," she warned.

"You belong in this world. I belong to her – she's been gone so long and now I've found her. Let me go, Buffy. Let me be with her."

"Stop it!" she cried, her fist clenching hard around the hilt of her sword, her knuckles showing white.

He pushed. "It's true – I'm sorry."

"I don't believe you. I remember."

He shook his head firmly. "You think you do, but if you really love me, Buffy? Let me go to her."

She shoved him, savagely, swallowing hard. "It's them. They're making you do this."

"No," he swore. "I told you, just you and me. Don't be angry. I belong to her. I have to-"

He lurched as the blade tore through his gut, the pain splitting through his thoughts – he lurched back, clawing for his last look at her, straining to hear...he felt himself falling, her face flashed before him, smeared, stained with tears and sweat, her voice fading, coarse and anguished, reaching for him – the final word clear.

"Angel..."

EPILOGUE

She pulled up outside, not bothering to park the battered jeep, wishing she'd found something better in honor of the trip. It wasn't like there was anyone to see it or any traffic to compete with, but still. She slid a thick leather strap over her head and slung her sword onto her back, dropping down onto the road, so used to counter-balancing the weight she wasn't sure she could stay upright without it anymore.

She looked the building over. An entire wing had been demolished, probably in the early raids, the rest was practically falling down anyway – all by its dismal self. Inside she stood for a moment, absorbing the silence, the isolation...it was familiar to her, like the scream of battle, the thunder – she knew the extremes so well. It'd been a long time since she'd been able to come here, sit and replay it all in her mind. A long time since L.A. had been the only home she knew and the front line of the fight. If she could peel back the years of decay and dirt, she could almost imagine that here, in this one spot, nothing had changed.

She walked down the steps to the center of the vast room and stared at the offending floor, cracked and suffering with age. She slipped the ring off easily, her hands slimmer now that food had become kind of a luxury. She held it between her fingers for a moment, running the pad of her thumb over the smooth plain of the small silver heart. It was a sweet lie – nothing about a human organ could be so smooth and strong. She'd seen them strewn carelessly at her feet, frail and ugly.

She crouched down, placing her Claddagh on the floor and backed away, watching it intently like it might vanish at any moment, straining her ears for a whisper of sound.

"I know you can hear me," she called, her voice echoing back at her, mocking. "I'm Buffy Summers, the *only* Buffy Summers. I'm the Slayer. I've fulfilled my obligation to The Powers That Be. I won them their war. I'm assuming since you're all-powerful, that's the way you wanted things to happen. You owe me."

She paused, gulping down the tangle of confusing tears like her body had in some way malfunctioned, drinking them with curious awareness – she hadn't cried in a long time. Crying didn't get you anywhere.

"I hear I'm in line for a reward. Tara told me all about the rest of the shiny new destiny you've got worked out for me. Well, newsflash: I'm not interested. You took something that belongs to me. I don't know where he is...whatever he was supposed to owe the Senior Partners? Well, consider the debt void – they're done. I saw to it myself. What's left of the people I care about...they're out there cleaning up the mess. I'm done fighting. I've gave seven years of my life to your apocalypse, to save a world that hardly even exists anymore. And I'm done waiting.

"Even if everyone is subject to their destinies, not everything is planned. I've been taught that the hard way. You never saw us coming, you couldn't keep us apart...some things can't be controlled. Now, you can give me what I came for or watch me come take it. Your choice, but make it fast. While I'm still on your side...."

She found a step that hadn't crumpled, the dust insignificant, and she sat down, tucking her chin up to her knees – to wait. She had nothing to lose. If she was no more than a difficult thread, tied to whichever master chose to use her as a plaything, knotted at their whim...let them cut her off permanently. She had it on good authority – her authority – that, in fact, the Fates needed her more than she would ever need them.

Either way, she wasn't leaving without Angel.

They had ten minutes, before she'd show them how much she appreciated the years they'd made her survive without him. Exactly ten minutes, before she showed them what it was like to face consequences.

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